Silent Knight
by Stickelbatz
Summary: In an instant Holly's existence was altered. Seeking respite from her own personal hell, she reaches out to the one man who can see her but refuses to acknowledge she exists. Tristan never believed in ghost stories, until now.*On HIATUS until further notice*
1. Chapter 1

**I own nothing that seems familar to you in this story, but you know that already.**

**THANKS TO THE BETA TEAM! Leigh, Jo and Murt you guys have no idea what you've signed on for.**

**This prologue DIRECTLY follows the events in my other story Eternal Knight. If you haven't read the final chapter of that story you may be slightly confused. **

**For those of you who have waited so patiently, I hope you enjoy. **

"_. . . solitude is such a potential thing. We hear voices in solitude, we never hear in the hurry and turmoil of life; we receive counsels and comforts, we get under no other condition . . ."_-**Amelia Barr**

Chapter 1 (Prologue)

Tristan's relief at having left the wedding celebrations behind was palpable. He couldn't stand the thought of remaining in that crowed room. The myriad of stale smells and sweaty bodies was enough to make his skin crawl. He preferred the fresh air, preferred his solitude, the chill of the night, and the promise of peace. He took a drink from his wine skin and relished the burn of it as it hit his empty stomach. His pace was languid as he made his way out of the gates, the din from the wall following him but slowly fading as he walked further away.

The restlessness he'd been experiencing of late had reached an intolerable level, even for him. Taking another drink, he was not surprised in the least when he noticed he'd crossed into the darkened, tree-thick forest. This place had always been his haven, yet now it was becoming something he craved. Tristan turned and cast a glance over his shoulder, amber eyes darting quickly and surveying his surroundings. His keen ears were open for any sound, yet nothing came.

For a single startling moment he could have sworn he was being followed. He liked to believe that nothing and no one would have the ability to sneak upon him, but as of late he'd experienced too many unexplainable things in this forest, that the thought of being followed by something just as silent as himself disturbed him.

He turned back, the strange prickling of his senses dulled by the drink and the chill. Ambling at a slow pace, his feet carried him to the outcropping, where the rippling of the pond and stream could be heard and the skeletal remains of an old burned-down poachers hut stood out in stark relief. The moonlight caressed the rotted wood, highlighted what was once a thatched roof. It was overrun now, the woods having crept up to reclaim it, ferns and foliage growing rampant and wild around and over it.

Dagonet hated this place. Refused to even set foot in the glen. When they'd hunt he'd take extra care to give this place a wide berth, skirting around it as if even being near it was too much to bear. Dagonet had said the place was wrong. Tristan had never inquired why; it seemed he was the only person who dared to visit the glen. He secretly liked the fact that this place seemed to belong solely to him, to welcome him as it were.

Even as boys no one wanted to explore the place. It was as if they all knew something that he didn't. Not that it mattered. This was the best place to scout, and the best hunting was always found here. He alone explored the glen and appreciated what it had to offer. He'd trained Fionn here, had come here when he didn't want to be found and had often slept here. Though, he did not like the dreams he'd had when he did.

Tristan shifted slowly to rest against a tree. Bones in his back popped and cracked, old war wounds twinged, but it was nothing he wasn't used to. He reached reflexively for his dagger, ran the tip across his thumb, and felt the familiar weight of it in his palm before he closed his eyes, letting the sounds of the forest wash over him, truly relaxing for the first time in days.

The sound of a woman's anguished scream ripped through the stillness like a knife in his belly. His eyes shot open in a flash, going completely alert in an instant. Sucking in a deep breath, Tristan realized he'd fallen asleep.

The sound hadn't been real. It was more of an echo in his mind, a scream lost in time. He'd been dreaming--again. Taking another deep breath, he took one sweeping glance over the glen and the strange prickling sensation again hit him with such force that he pushed himself to his feet.

Tristan sensed the presence at first. Something was watching him. Keeping his back pressed against the tree and his fist closed around the hilt of his dagger, he turned and looked to his left, a barely perceptible move that he dared before moving away from his spot. If this thing was hunting him he'd show them that he was prey not easily caught.

The wind kicked up at once, and the bare branches of the trees scraped together in the wind, a grating sound to his sharp ears. Tristan's nose twitched: the distinct scent of lavender carried on the breeze seemed out of place, considering it was late fall and the season was dangerously close to winter. Fallen leaves swirled around his boots, dancing across his legs, and he bent to pick one up, studying it, twirling the stem between his thumb and forefinger.

It was a brittle, brown oak leaf. Odd, as there were no oaks in this part of the forest--not for miles to the east. There had been at one time, but that was years before his arrival in Britain and now he was staring at a leaf he had a hard time believing had been carried on the wind across miles into the forest.

The oppressive sense of being watched increased tenfold and Tristan dropped the leaf as he watched disbelievingly as a tendril of mist curled around the trunk of the tree. The night was clear, there'd been no indication of fog and yet suddenly he found himself watching a low heavy veil of mist roll out from the edge of the glen toward him. The smell of lavender besieged him and for the first time in a long time Tristan felt unsure of his familiar surroundings.

Just as he was unprepared to admit that he was afraid of what was happening, he was drawn to the mist again, as he had been that first time he'd witnessed it. Taking one hesitant step toward it, it retreated slightly as if it wanted him to follow. Tightening his grip on his dagger and cursing the fact that he'd had so much to drink this eve, he decided against every instinct he'd honed over the years to do exactly what it wanted.

Every step he took toward the mysterious mist, the further it retreated into the trees. The eerie stillness of the forest made his skin prickle, and the bleak realization that there were no animals brave enough to be in this area should have discouraged him, but it didn't. An intense sense of curiosity overwhelmed him, drowning out any hesitation he might have felt.

Tristan wanted answers and tonight he had a feeling he'd finally get them. The fragile snap of twigs beneath his feet seemed to sober him for a moment. He stopped and as he did so did the mist. It hung, suspended, low to the ground as though waiting for him. He narrowed his eyes: something was wrong here. Was this an enchantment?

There had been no such inclination of witchcraft in the area; in fact Reagan had been one of the closest things to a real 'witch' Camelot had-and that was laughable. The only other suspect Tristan could think of was Mab. An old hermit woman who had wisely sworn fealty to Arthur and who in return had been left alone to live her life unchanged and unchecked. Their paths had crossed more than once, but Tristan respected the crone's need for isolation as much as she did his own. They had never spoken.

This was no witchcraft, Tristan realized, as he watched the heavy fog curl closer and closer to him as if it longed to wrap its ethereal fingers around his ankles.

This was something else entirely. Again he felt that undeniable pull as if something was calling to him. The desperation of it was almost biting, and the force of the feeling was indescribable. Even as he knew it was almost impossible to ignore.

Again he strode toward it, his steps quicker this time, lighter, and once again the fog retreated. He took no heed of where it was leading him, which was a mistake. He stopped only when the tips of his boots splashed into the shallow pond. The same pond where he'd first spied Reagan bathing.

Taking a deep breath, his eyes quickly surveyed the place, the sound of his harsh breathing the only thing to break the thick silence. Then as if sensing his hesitation once more, the mist gathered itself into one area, slowly trailing along a slightly submerged tree that stretched the entire length of the pond.

Tristan followed, his boots slipping slightly on the wet, rotted wood, surprised that it could carry his weight. The swollen trunk sank deeper beneath his feet into the water but did not give way. He watched with narrowed eyes, as the mist seemed to gather in on itself on the opposite bank. It disappeared almost as instantly as it had appeared to him in the glen.

The sense of desperation he'd been feeling faded swiftly. Water seeped into the soles of his boots and Tristan realized what a fool he'd been. He quickly sheathed the dagger he had been clutching in a death grip and began to back slowly toward the shore, mindful of how slippery the surface of the wood on which he was perched had become.

The wind kicked up again, this time more forcefully than before and once more he was stunned to find dry, brittle oak leaves swirling against his calves. They skimmed the surface of the still water, causing tiny ripples as they swirled toward the embankment. His hair whipped into his eyes blinding him for a moment, only a moment, and when the wind abruptly ceased he had the stark realization that he was no longer alone.

He turned sharply to look behind him only to find that a solid curtain of fog had surrounded him. Shapes slowly shifted with in it. He blinked in disbelief, as the shapes seemed to become more solid. A hand, that was ghostly white and impossibly feminine, seemed to stretch out toward him, hesitantly reaching for him.

Then he watched in horror as a pair of warm brown eyes stared back at him through the mist, the only spot of color in the swath of white. Features were slowly revealed to him, as the fog began to gather itself again, this time more condensed and solid than it had ever appeared to him before. All at once he realized that he was staring at the form of a woman, translucent and colorless but for her eyes. She smiled at him as if his terrified, incredulous reaction was all she had waited for. Again that feeling of desperation welled inside him, followed by excitement and triumphant anticipation.

Once more, she stretched that long ghostly white hand toward him, and once more Tristan fought to believe exactly what he was seeing.

Acting on the instinct he had ignored for far too long, Tristan backed away, his usually agile feet failing him. The woman shook her head at him as if in warning. Her deep brown eyes going wide, her mouth opening as if she wanted to shout a warning to him, but no sound emerged.

And just like that, Tristan slipped. Just like that he felt icy cold water swallow him whole, before a bright pain burst in his skull and the entire world went completely dark.

**AN: One of my betas calls me a "Cliffhanger Monster" I think she's onto something there. More to come soon I promise. Until then HAPPY READING! **

**~S**


	2. Chapter 2

** I own nothing that seems familar to you in this story, but you know that already. Holly is my own creation. Tristan is very irritated at me for this I assure you. **

**THANKS TO THE BETA TEAM! Leigh, Jo and Murt, this chapter wouldn't be what it is without your input!**

**This is a paranormal romance/mystery. Though some things seem vague now, they will be all explained in due course. Give me time dear readers, I hopefully will not fail you :) **

"_The good he scorned stalked off reluctant, like an ill-used ghost, Not to return; or if it did, in visits like those of angels, short and far between."- __**Robert Blair**_

Chapter 2

She hadn't meant to kill him.

Holly watched stunned as the normally agile man she'd come to admire from afar slipped. Well, not slip exactly; it was more like scramble backwards, trip over his own two feet and fall into the frigid pond. She didn't realize that something was terribly wrong until he did not immediately break the surface of said pond.

She'd used up her entire store of energy just to make herself appear to him. There was no way she'd be able to reach into the pond and pull him up. Crouching, Holly bent over the log but didn't actually touch it. She felt the wood, but it did not respond to her weight the same way it had his. She reached out a hand only to watch the translucent appendage pass through the water, the surface of which remained completely undisturbed.

Holly heaved a sigh and waited. Patience was a virtue, her mama had always said. The man may not be a great swimmer, but he'd recover from his fright soon enough. So what that he'd just seen a ghost? So what that he may have hurt himself in his flight to get away from her? Holly told herself all of these things, but she had a hard time pushing away the alarm that was now clawing at her.

What if she _had_ killed him?

Thankfully, she was saved from her torturous thoughts seconds later when someone came running into the clearing, shouting.

"Tristan!" A deep voice boomed. She looked to her left and spotted a big man, someone she'd seen several times over the years, but who had never dared to brave such close proximity to her before. He broke into the clearing, a deep look of concern crossing his bold features, the scar crossing his right eye standing out white against his swarthy skin.

"Tristan!" he called again, and as if in answer the man's body broke the surface of the water--face down. Dread washed over Holly in thick waves. The answer to her salvation had drowned and she'd been helpless to stop it. In fact she'd caused it. Once again, almost forgetting the state she'd been in some twenty-five years, she reached for him, watching powerlessly as her hand passed through his own.

No contact. Not even a single indication that she'd tried to touch him. The dead oak leaves that tumbled across his prone body in her wake mocked her attempt.

Loud splashing broke through her despair and Holly turned to watch the big man dive into the pond, his movements surprisingly graceful and fluid for someone so large. He reached Tristan within seconds and dragged him to the surface.

Holly felt his panic and fear as keenly as if it were her own, and watched as his erratic puffs of breath made clouds on the cold air as he dragged the lifeless man to the shore. His big hands tore at clothing trying with all his might to make the man breathe again. Turning him face down he beat upon his back with timed yet forceful whacks between his shoulder blades.

"Come on Tristan, you ass! _Breathe_!" The last word was wrung from him as if it were a prayer. Holly's sense of dismay and hopelessness increased tenfold. She berated herself; knowing without a doubt that her selfishness, her own desire to end decades of solitude and finally be acknowledged had cost a man his life.

Waiting and watching she hovered in the ether, always a witness but never a participant, as the enormous man tried desperately to save his friend's life. Holly crept ever closer to the pair of them: one unconscious, the other frantic, and she was stunned by the waves of desperation rolling off of the big man.

"Breathe, damn you!" he finally shouted and Holly found herself whispering along with him as if it they alone could will the man to live. He _had_ to live, she realized, he was her only hope. If he died it would be as if she didn't exist. The waiting, the watching, the hope that one day he would be the key so she could set things to rights.

If he died it would make her existence, her reason for being seem an utter void. With a force of will she hadn't felt since she was alive she bent ever closer to him and whispered one single word into his ear: "Please."

With an unexpectedness that made her reel backwards, the fallen man began to cough and gag. Sickly streams of water poured from his throat and nose before he sucked rattling breaths into his aching lungs. A feeling of relief so acute shot through Holly, that for the first time she had difficulty distinguishing her emotions from the others around her. The big man rolled his friend over, cradling him in a brotherly embrace. His powerful hands were quick and sure as the checked over the still-struggling man for injuries.

"Tristan? Are you all right? Speak to me man!" Tristan groaned, muttered something incomprehensible, and pushed Dagonet's searching hands away in irritation while still coughing. When the healer's hands came away bloodied, Holly gasped. He had hurt himself in his attempt to flee from her? Was she really that frightening?

"Well, you managed to crack your skull!" Dagonet snapped, showing clear exasperation before hauling Tristan to his feet. "We need to get you back to the wall," he stated. Slinging an arm across his broad shoulders Dagonet preceded to half drag, half carry the man out of the forest.

Holly trailed in their wake not far behind. Many yards had past before she was aware that the heavy fog that accompanied her more riotous emotions had returned. It shrouded her within its white embrace even as oak leaves swirled about the tangled forest floor.

Several times the big man turned to look over his shoulder, thick brows drawn together in unease at the dense fog that seemed to follow them. Holly could tell that his hackles were raised at the unusually crisp wind that shook the naked branches overhead.

Fear was an emotion she was all too familiar with. She wasn't sure if she imagined the increase in his pace, but she was aware that he did not like this part of the forest as much as his friend did, especially on this night.

_Control your emotions_, she chastised herself. Instantly Holly felt the mist roll backward and dissolve around her. The last thing she wanted to do was scare someone else and cause more unintentional harm.

Rogue oak leaves continued to cartwheel behind her, but the wind died down and the fog had vanished. Holly knew she was just as invisible to the men she was following as she was to almost everyone else she crossed paths with. There were times when she was thankful for her spectral cloak-- this was one of them.

Dagonet dragged Tristan as fast as he could without harming him further. The scout's big boots carved tracks into the ground behind him, but he had not elicited a sound since Dagonet had roused him earlier.

"What were you thinking?" She heard the older man ask, a scolding yet curious tone to his voice. "You know you can't swim, and you've been drinking. I can smell it on you." A moment of silence stretched out between them. The tip of Tristan's boot snagged an upturned root and Dagonet successfully dislodged it, shaking him a bit rougher than was necessary.

Tristan's answering groan of pain twisted at Holly's heart.

"Did you see her?" Came a mumble so quiet that Dagonet almost dismissed it. They were nearing the edge of the forest and Holly began to feel a familiar pull backward. It was the invisible force that held her captive to this place. She could never cross the border of the woods; this was a rule she learned early on, one that was obeyed without question.

"See who?" Holly watched as the two men walked into the clearing just outside of the forest. Dagonet stopped to readjust the hold he had on his friend. Holly knew with a keen sense of profound disappointment that she had ill-used her one of her few chances at an introduction. All of her carefully laid plans had been cast to the wind the second Tristan had tried to flee from her. It would take her days to store up enough energy to appear to him again.

The question remained, though, after tonight's disastrous results: would she want to?

Had she really expected him to be different? Only one other person Holly had encountered over the years had given her any indication that they sensed her, but for some reason this man, this knight, this Tristan had as well. She had been a fledgling spirit, weaker than a kitten, when the first had arrived, her death having only occurred a few years before.

He had been thin raw-boned boy with a strange luminous air about him that couldn't be denied. Holly had been drawn to him from the first. The glimpses of him she'd caught over the years were enough to sustain her and give her hope. She had grown more powerful as time wore on. As she had learned to hone her new abilities and found her limitations, she had watched from a distance as the odd, careful, quiet boy grew into a man.

And now the truth stared her in the face and Holly refused to accept it. She had been mistaken, and in her impatience and desire to be acknowledged she had in fact caused this man a grievous injury. Tristan, despite her previous beliefs, was no different than any other. Holly had foolishly stacked all of her hopes on one person. Instinct and incarnation be damned, she was a fool!

Perhaps she was doomed to live out an eternity in these woods, constantly reliving her gruesome death at each full moon, never again to feel the breeze on her face, the warmth of the sun on her skin. Trapped forever in this purgatory of an existence. Silenced completely just as _he_ had intended so long ago.

She would be forced to finally accept that her untimely death had been just that, untimely.

_Never_. She thought fiercely.

Holly had fought to escape death's clutches with one purpose in mind: To seek vengeance and justice in whatever form she could. She was tied to this forest, but she'd always known that its hold on her was fleeting. And once she was set free she would hunt _him_ down and show _him_ that no deed, neither good nor bad, went unpunished.

The two men stopped at Tristan's insistence. Dagonet's features sharpened in worry as he watched incredulously as Tristan stood wavering on his own two feet. The scout pushed Dagonet's arm away even as he reached for him, as if he were loath to lean on the other man's support any longer.

"You didn't see her?" He asked again, this time his voice more adamant, loud, and it carried toward her on the wind.

"See _who_?" Dagonet looked at him through narrowed eyes as if Tristan may have injured his head more severely than the healer had originally thought.

"The woman, the…? " Tristan's reply trailed off, his words slurred. A question lingered in the air around him, as if he himself didn't quite believe what he was saying.

"Woman?" Dagonet asked the word tumbling from him in haste; his tone was gruff, dubious, seconds before both of them turned back toward the forest. A thin trail of mist hung low at the threshold, creeping slowly backward toward the thick darkness of the trees.

Holly knew that her emotions were getting the best of her, but the men could only see the ethereal fog, not the woman who's riotous feelings controlled it.

"There is no one there, Tris," Dagonet said. Though his tone seemed to waver and his heavy brows once again gathered into a deep V over his eyes. He grabbed for his friend's arm once more, and Tristan, though reluctant, leaned upon him. "Let's get you back to the wall. Reagan is going to be beside herself when she finds you in this state."

"Reagan…" Tristan mumbled again as though the name sounded strange to his ears. Holly wondered who this Reagan was and what sort of relationship the two of them had, realizing there was so little she really knew about him.

All thoughts of this other person were cast aside moments later when Tristan turned his head in a slow almost imperceptible move, just as he was being led away and met her curious gaze. Holly gasped, the echoing sound something only she could hear. Tristan had looked at her as if she were corporal, as if she were _real_.

"Lady," he muttered again. "Saw her."

"I'm sure you did." Dagonet's tone was every bit as patronizing as it sounded, but Holly paid it no heed.

One look was all the encouragement she had needed.

**AN: HUGE thanks go out to everyone to reviewed/alerted/read the prologue. I must confess I was nervous with this concept. Hopefully this short chapter helps shed some light on the chapters to follow. I am borrowing from my own knowledge of legends and myths, plus the dozen(s) or so paranormal romances I've read over the years, and the movie itself. **

**Delicious freshly baked cyber cookies to anyone who guesses the correct quote from the movie for my inspiration! **

**Until Chapter 3, I hope you enjoy! Happy Reading! **

**~S **


	3. Chapter 3

**I own nothing that seems familar to you in this story, but you know that already. Holly is my own creation. Tristan is very irritated at me for this I assure you.**

**THANKS TO THE BETA TEAM! Leigh, Jo and Murt, this chapter wouldn't be what it is without your input!**

**Cyber Cookies to: Hazelelf1183 for guessing the right movie quote! Shadow's Interceptor for making a guess, and Storylover456 for guessing one of the books that I used for my inspiration!**

"_I can call spirits from the vastly deep."_- **William Shakespeare**

Chapter 3

The sounds of smoldering wood popping in a well-maintained hearth, the rustle of skirts and the quiet tapping of a woman's impatient foot alerted Tristan that he was not in his own chambers. The tangible scents of medicinal herbs and powders and the low murmur of familiar voices coming from the far corner let him to believe that he was currently in the healing rooms. The dull throbbing ache in his skull and the faint metallic taste in his mouth also told him he was likely a patient.

He cracked open his heavy eyelids and peered about the room, noting with wry amusement and irritation that he had been correct.

"You're awake now, I see," came a voice. Reagan. Tristan inwardly winced, knowing full well that a note of irritation in her voice was never a good thing. He closed his eyes again, willing himself back to sleep, hoping she would leave him be and knowing that it was futile. Reagan didn't know how to let anyone be.

Again a rustle of skirts and an impatient huff let him know his charade had been all too transparent. A warm hand pressed to the side of his face and the scents of rich earth and mint drifted toward him. Reagan always smelled of herbs and dark soil and it never failed to stir something within him.

"You can't fool me, scout." Oh, he knew that all too well. At one time he would have secretly relished these attentions from her, now they only seemed to make him feel annoyed and increasingly worn.

"Leave me," he snapped, grimacing as the sound of his own grating voice shot pain through his head. Another impatient sigh, though this one sounded more indulgent, and Reagan drew her hand away.

"Fine," she replied mulishly. "Though you may wish to know your bird has made herself a nuisance since you've arrived here. Refuses to leave."

At her words the rustle of feathers sounded. Fionn was perched in the rafters. Tristan stirred then; she was keeping watch, good girl.

"I'm leaving her droppings for you to clean, my lord." Reagan finished before setting something solid down onto the table next to him. Tristan felt his lips curl into a faint smile. Reagan moved away from him then and he let out a breath. He dared to open his eyes fully this time and spied Fionn first. She cocked her head toward him, her yellow eyes blinking rapidly before she settled further on her perch, feathers ruffled, as if finding her assessment of him satisfactory. Then his eyes fell Dagonet.

The knight sat slumped on a stool in a darkened corner, his large frame filling the small space almost awkwardly. His eyes were closed and his head bobbed limply on his neck, jarring him awake. He sniffed, rubbed the back of his hand over his mouth and stiffly stood up.

Dagonet walked over to the workbench that was placed directly in front of the twin hearths. Tristan watched for some time as he rooted around for a set of particular bowls, admiring the economy and precision of the knight's movements. With Dagonet's back toward him and Reagan, ever the watchdog apprentice, gone for the moment, Tristan felt it was safe for him to get up.

Slinging his legs over the side of the cot, he realized quickly that someone had removed his boots and most of his clothing. He patted himself down, searching for his weapons, feeling naked without them. He ignored the pain splitting down the back of his head and the faint fuzziness at the corners of his eyes.

"Thinking of going for another swim?" Tristan looked up to see Dagonet leaning casually against the workbench, his massive arms folded across his chest, a stubborn glint in his eyes. Tristan lifted his shoulders carelessly.

"What would be the point? Can't swim."

"Funny, you didn't remember that fact last night." Dagonet's droll tone was not lost on Tristan. He didn't know how to reply to that so he chose to remain silent.

The memory of the previous night was still unclear to him, though Tristan now realized that his extremely hazy memories had not been the dream, or rather the nightmare, he had believed it to be. His presence in the healing rooms was proof of that. Dagonet turned his back on him again and began grinding something fiercely with a mortar and pestle. The fragrance of it wafted toward him and Tristan's nose twitched peculiarly.

"What herb is that?" He heard himself ask.

"Lavender," the healer tossed over his shoulder. "It's meant to put the nerves at ease." Tristan inwardly scoffed at that, as the smell alone was doing the exact opposite to him, and he wondered why.

"You're not giving that to me." At that Dagonet stopped his grinding and turned around again to face him, that damned look of concern crossing his features. Tristan hated it when Dag looked at him like that.

"Who said I was?" Both men looked at each other, one's expression unyielding, the other worried. Dagonet was the first to look away.

"My clothes - where are they?" Tristan barked. Dagonet shook his head, and wearily setting the bowl down a bit too forcefully, walked out to the back of the healing rooms. A muffled argument could be heard moments later. Reagan's protests were drowned out by Dagonet's calm, yet forceful attempts to dissuade her from something. Seconds later she stomped out from the store cupboard, red-cheeked and in a fit of obvious pique.

"You're not leaving, so don't even think about it." Tristan knew better than to cross Reagan when she was in a mood, but the thought of remaining here in these too-warm rooms, with the nagging sensation that he was supposed to be doing something--that someone was waiting for him just outside--was almost too much to bear. Dagonet crept back into the main room waiting to see if there would be a standoff between this brother-in-arms and his fiercely overprotective, new apprentice.

"I want my clothes, Reagan," he growled, but she looked unmoved at his attempt to bully her.

"They're still wet," she countered. "From when you fell into the pond and cracked your head open and almost drowned!" As if her reminder of his brush with death could have swayed him to obey her. He'd been on death's door before and he'd survived. One more visit wasn't going to make him any more vulnerable.

"Weapons and clothes. Now." His tone left no room for argument. He watched as Reagan took another deep breath, fighting her temper. Her blue eyes flashed and she gave Dagonet a beseeching look. The healer gave her a slight shake of his head in response and by now Tristan was getting tired of their nonverbal conversation.

At that moment Fionn let out a piercing cry and Reagan barely dodged having a nice size pile of droppings land on her shoulder.

She gave Tristan a dark glare and muttered something about "Sarmatians and shit," before turning to go back into the cupboard, and he barely succeeded in suppressing a grin. He looked at Fionn and she blinked at him innocently, so he tipped his chin to her, to let her know he appreciated her attempt at protecting him.

Reagan came back soon enough, sidestepping Dagonet with a pile of clothes wadded up in her arms. She dumped them unceremoniously into the scout's lap before she jabbed a finger toward the bedside table. "Clothes. Weapons." Tristan spied all of his knives and daggers neatly placed on the table next to his cot, lined up according to size just as he would have done.

"Did you disarm me?" She gave him a beguiling smile and Tristan was taken aback by the expression. "Who do you think took off your wet clothing? Need I remind you that you once saw all of my wares when I was oblivious of it." She looked him up and down in appraisal and if she had been anyone else Tristan would have taken the look at face value and acted upon it.

"We're even now," Reagan grinned at him, a cheeky glint in her eyes. _No wonder Lancelot had been a hopeless fool for this woman_, he thought. Ignoring her hovering, he shoved his legs into his still damp breeches, bending over to tie up his boots. His head felt heavy on his neck and he tried to unsuccessfully to blink away the black dots that swam before his eyes.

"I still don't think you should leave," Reagan said softly as she handed him the sharp dagger he kept tucked into his boot. Tristan took it, slid the knife into the hidden pocket and looked at her.

At his drawn-out and resolute silence, Reagan frowned, shook her head and stepped away as he stood up. Immediately Tristan knew it was a mistake. If his neck had felt heavy when he was sitting down, when he stood up it felt as if he had a large stone tied around it, pulling him to the floor. Tristan blinked again as the blackness crept in from the corners of his eyes, and dimly heard Fionn's piercing cry and Reagan's startled gasp before he fell over. It was a long moment before he regained consciousness.

Tristan groaned and opened his eyes. Reagan was standing over him with her hands on her hips looking indignant. Dagonet kneeled before him with that Gods-damned worried expression twisting his features.

"Still ready to leave?" he asked as he hauled Tristan to his feet. Before he could form a reply he was pushed bonelessly onto the cot and the dizziness suddenly stopped. He flopped an arm over his eyes so he didn't have to look at their expressions.

"I'm going. You can't stop me." Tristan heard another impatient sigh from Reagan and could bet that Dagonet was shaking his head again.

"You can leave when you can stand up without falling over," replied Dag.

"Give me until nightfall."

He had sounded so certain of his recovery Reagan couldn't help but ask "Why not wait until morning? You don't have to prove anything."

"Nightfall." His tone had been final.

"Why?" He heard Dagonet ask, and something in his voice made Tristan look at him.

"I need to know if it was real." The healer's brows gathered at this and Tristan refused to let the look bother him.

"It was real, Tristan, you drank too much and fell into the pond. You're not going anywhere tonight." Tristan glared at him knowing full well that was not what he was talking about. Dagonet looked at Reagan then. Again they shared some nonverbal cues and she left, red cheeked, her too big boots smacking against the floor as she went.

"What do you remember of last night?" Dagonet asked.

_Truthfully?_ He thought to himself, _nothing discernible_, but he knew something had occurred. Something that even now had him crawling out of his skin to rediscover. Tristan could not escape the feeling that something was awaiting him. Something that had to do with nightfall and his glen- he had to get to the glen. If he told Dagonet he had dreamt of a woman shrouded in white, one who had reached for him, would he think him mad? Yes. But what did that matter? Most of the villagers thought him mad already.

He did not share his thoughts with Dagonet. What would be the point? Instead he turned away again, staring sightlessly out the window at the growing darkness and biding his time. Eventually Dagonet gave up trying to get an answer out of him and returned to his duties, leaving Tristan alone, just as he wished.

Madness or no, he had to know if what he'd found last night had been real, because for some reason he couldn't shake the feeling that it was, and that was what bothered him the most.

* * *

"_Do you hear them, __puça?" His mother asks, her face alight with excitement. Tristan shakes his head as the wind changes direction, blowing smoke from the blazing fire into his eyes and making them sting. He coughs, but does not wave the smoke away. His mother gives him a sharp look as if he's interrupted an important conversation. _

_It's the same thing every full moon. His mother will drag him away from the camp and the other boys and make him assemble a fire. Then they sit quietly until it grows very dark. His stomach gurgles in hunger but he ignores it. His restless legs twitch to get up and run across the empty field, to do something, but he doesn't. Tristan has learned to endure this; his mother is patient and he can be too. _

_He hears nothing, sees nothing, even as he watches his mother close her eyes and begin to hum. Tristan is spellbound by her: the way she moves, her draping sleeves making long shadows in the firelight, her dark hair rippling down her back. Chills run up and down his arms and suddenly he is very cold. Mother is not scared, and tells him not be frightened._

_ This is in his blood, she says, one day he too will be able to hear them and see them. _

_But he doesn't and he looks away, wondering if he really wants to. Some of the boys think his mother a mad woman--a witch. Tristan ignores them. How could his mother be mad? True, at times she is a bit absentminded, sometimes looking at him as if he weren't even there, yet she was always loving and kind and smelled sweetly of the sea. _

_During his seventh winter she had presented him proudly to the elder. The stooped old man had looked at him, grabbed his chin in a rough palm and stared at him. Tristan did not like the look the aged one gave him, and when he tried to pull out of the old man's grasp he was rewarded with a stiff, stinging slap. His mother had gasped, but did not pull him away. Instead he felt her fingers curl into his shoulders to hold him in place. The elder looked at his mother, gave her a crisp nod and he felt her possessive grasp on his shoulders tighten. _

_That had been the beginning of their full moon ritual. The following spring they had marked him. It had taken weeks for the stinging under his eyes to go away. _

_Now, however Tristan's legs twitch once more and he suppresses the urge to rub his arms to ward away the cold. His mother sits still as stone next to him and so does he. Her eyes are closed in bliss, her face bathed in moonlight. _

"_Do you see them, __puça__?" She asks again in that far off voice. _

"_No, __Mâtar. I don't." Her eyes opened then, the rich color so much like his own, yet now so different swirling with memories and unseen faces, and the look frightens him. _

"_You will." _

* * *

Tristan rapidly blinked the memory away, wondering what had brought it to mind in the first place. Naked tree branches swayed in the biting wind as he tucked the furs closer to his body. He'd sat in this glen for the better part of the week and had spied nothing so foreign as a rabbit scurrying into a hole. The glen was once more teeming with wildlife and he sometimes felt as if he were intruding.

There had been no sign of fog. No mist and certainly no rain to indicate that there would be. He couldn't remember a time when this accursed island had ever been this dry. Rubbing his nose on the back of his hand he prepared to wait another hour or so. Twilight had finally come and gone and the glen was enrobed in darkness. A low hanging harvest moon peeked through the branches above, a sight that pleased him. His mother in all of her eccentricities would have relished a night like this. He was half tempted to build a fire in her honor.

Fionn had long since left him. She had gathered her kill; a small brown field mouse, in her beak and flown away. Tired, apparently, of waiting for him to notice her. Tristan noticed her well enough, and idly wondered if his lack of praise for her fine catch was what had ruffled the bird's feathers. In any case, he was left alone, which suited him just fine.

Breathing deeply of the forest, he tucked his hands further into the furs and waited. His eyelids felt heavy, but he refused to close them, lest he dream again. There was something about this place that made him want to sleep. It had often lulled him into a doze that left him more exhausted than before.

Pressing his back straighter against the tree, Tristan pushed himself up, hoping this posture would keep him more alert. His thoughts shifted to the mysterious entity as they had so many times over the last few days.

Was she real or imagined? Tristan had often over the course of his life felt as if he were being watched. That had been the beauty of his glen. Here he felt welcome, at peace. It was a place to seek solitude, yet never had he truly felt alone. He had often seen things others did not, flashes out of the corner of his eye that turned out to be nothing. As a result he had held onto his own sense of reality by his fingertips for years.

Tristan knew what was real. The tangy sharp sweetness of an apple on his tongue was real. The crimson stain of blood on his hands was real. A cry of pain inflicted on an opponent was real. The sound of an arrow hitting its intended target was real.

She was not real.

To even question her existence would further seek to push him over the brink. He sensed mysterious ethereal figures every day, why did he think that she was any different? _Because she reached for you…_

She was not real.

Just as the dreams he had been having were not real._ The reason for her is easy_, he thought. She was perhaps a shard of memory, a person he knew when he was a boy or an illusion. _Or_, he cringed at the thought, _something else_. The first he could accept and move past. The second worried him, but he had seen madness in men before and was sure he was not that far gone. The last was unthinkable.

The breeze blew through his hair, obscuring his vision. It was colder this time, and Tristan smelled the telltale signs of snow and something sweet and fragrant stirring a wisp of memory._ Lavender_.

Instantly his skin prickled. Again, just as before, the sense of being watched was so oppressive that it forced him to his feet. Gone was the sense of peace he had been feeling. Now there was only need--it was an eagerness and yearning that clawed at him aggressively. His head throbbed, his heart pounded and the wind howled, bending the bare trees into submission.

He was supposed to do something. What, he doesn't know, only that he needs to do something… Anything. Pushing himself away from the tree, he strode into the middle of the clearing, turning in circles.

"What?" He yelled, at a loss as to what else to do.

"What do you want from me?" There was no subtle trail of mist this time, no blatant curtain of fog. Instead there was a flash of long white hair, the glimmer of steady unblinking eyes materializing out of nowhere, watching him intently. Tristan backed away unsteadily, watching with wide eyes as once again the woman he had seen before stretched a hand out toward him, staring at him plaintively. Then ghostly fingers curled into her palm as if she realized she'd done something wrong. Slowly she retracted her hand and backed away.

Tristan finally released the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

She was as transparent as he remembers, colorless, except for her eyes. Dead oak leaves tangled in her hair and swirled about her legs, they are the only substantial things about her. She shook her head at his retreat. She didn't want him to leave, that much he could gather. Tristan couldn't have if he had tried. He felt rooted to the spot. Her mouth opened and closed, and he realized that she was trying to speak to him and struggling. Could ghosts speak?

"…Heeearrrr… Meeeee…?" Her voice sounded faint, the words drawn out as if she had shouted them from far away. Something in his non-answer must have enlightened her and a sudden expression of delight crossed her features. She moved closer to Tristan and he doesn't shrink away as he had intended.

He waited and watched, wondering what she'd do next. Again she reached for him, this time with both hands, but she did not try to grab for him. Instead she smiled as if pleased that he didn't move away and extended two fingers toward him. They brushed against the marks under his eyes but he felt nothing but the barest hint of a caress. Her touch was icy cold and fleeting and all together surreal.

"…Seeeee…Meeeee…?" The question caught him off guard, echoing his mother's voice in his mind. The memory of her wild, haunted eyes slammed into the forefront of his mind.

"_Do you see them, __puça__?"_

_Yes __Mâtar__, I do._

**An: I know... another cliffy. I can has the problemz. Good news is chapter 4 is done! :) Thanks to everyone who reviewed/alerted/read chapter 2. It keeps me going. I'm sorry I didn't get to reply to everyone like I intended. To my lovely annon revewers: THANKS! **

**Also I feel I should mention that this story owes a _very light_ hand to Kresley Cole's novel "Dark Desires after Dusk". Just as before it was part of my inspiration for this story, but it is by no means my template. It is however, a FANTASTIC book and if you love paranormal romance you should check it out. **


	4. Chapter 4

**I own nothing that seems familar to you in this story, but you know that already. Holly is my own creation. Tristan is very irritated at me for this I assure you.**

**Many thanks to the beta team! This chapter would not read as well as it does with out your help. Jo- you know what I mean! *wink* :)**

**I want to thank everyone who took time out of their day to leave this story a review. It really does mean a great deal to me! **

"_Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth unseen, both when we wake, and when we sleep."- __**John Milton**_

Chapter 4

"No." Tristan waved a hand in front of his face as if hoping he could erase the vision before him. The quick, fluid motion caused his elbow to pass through her torso and Holly was taken aback at the sensation. It felt as if a thousand tiny pinpricks shot through her body and she reluctantly moved backward at the onslaught of unexpected feeling.

Taking her withdrawal as a cue that she was just as hesitant about this as he was, Tristan sidestepped her so quickly that Holly hardly had any time to register it. Turning around she watched as he crossed the clearing in no time. He was leaving her-- again. The realization that he was going to pretend that this wasn't happening filled her with a sense of frustration and anger so potent that the moonlit glen was covered in thick fog seconds later. Holly took a deep breath tried to stem the swell of her emotions and failed.

She knew without a doubt that he was blinded by the fog. The sound of his steady footfalls had ceased.

With a tentative swallow she approached him from behind, very slowly. She could see his form clearly, yet he remained immobile. Slowly she forced herself to calm down and the mist dissipated inch by inch until shards of moonlight penetrated through, creating columns of curling pale light.

"Tristan?" Holly called out to him, feeling uncomfortable using his given name when he had no idea what hers was. Her voice was long, drawn out and she felt as if she were yelling down a corridor at him, when really he was mere feet away. Tristan slowly turned around. His hands were clenched into fists, and tension filled his big body. He radiated a kaleidoscope of emotions toward her and Holly felt herself blanch at their raw force. His face was devoid of any emotion-- its strong angles and rough planes were calm as he watched her approach. She wondered how he had become so adept at disguising what he was feeling.

Apparently her second attempt at an introduction wasn't going well either. In life, her social graces had been incomparable. Obviously being dead and alone for a while affected one's ability at even a simple hello.

Tristan's eyes glittered warily beneath a mass of tangled hair, but he looked directly at her and Holly felt a glimmer of hope flare within her once more.

"You are not real." His raspy voice was suffused with such conviction she would have believed him, had she not suffered through one quarter of a century of hell to prove him wrong.

"I'm not?" She asked, though her unused voice was barely above a whisper. The words tumbled over themselves as she formed them and she doubted he'd heard her.

"No." He answered back.

"Then explain why we are having this stimulating conversation." Holly countered with a raise of a skeptical eyebrow. Again the words were faint and drawn out but she could tell he had no trouble understanding her.

Right at that moment a blasted oak leaf caught on the wind and drifted directly through her face. Despite the fact that she could not stop it, she tried to swat it away irritably and failed. It ruined the effect.

Tristan continued to stare at her with that piercing gaze and she wondered if she imagined the shadow of a smile curl his lips.

"We're not."

Holly barely suppressed an indignant huff. This was the first conversation she'd had in twenty-five years and he wanted to turn it into an argument. She flashed him an indulgent grin, swept locks of hair over her shoulder and drew closer to him. He retreated as she expected and held out a hand.

"Stay," he ordered as if she were a pesky, disobedient hound. Feeling her irritation flare once more, Holly folded her arms across her chest and glared at him before she continued her slow advance, ignoring his command. It felt too wonderful, she realized, interacting with someone, and she'd been alone far too long to even begin to contemplate that this man was very rarely disobeyed.

"You will cease your approach, _ghost_." Tristan drew the last syllable of the word out until Holly had no doubt that he intended to prove a point. Reluctantly she stopped, her glare, however, turned even stonier.

Much to her dismay Tristan appeared unmoved. The multitude of emotions that bombarded her and the fierce pounding of his heart told her otherwise.

Tristan was _afraid_ of her.

She had expected this, so why was she so surprised? Because she believed him to be different—different, yes, she rationalized, but very much a human. A human whose erratic heartbeat and piercing eyes made her regret scaring him. Holly fought the urge to reach out for him again. He did not like it when she did. Instead she hovered there before him, patiently waiting for him to speak. A thick silence stretched out between them as he studied her and for some reason it made her uncomfortable.

"You are not real," he said again, slower this time, quieter as if he were trying to convince himself that it was true. He'd made his way back to that again. This was circular conversation and Holly was unable to hide her irritation. Mist began to rise slowly around them again and she was half tempted to shout "BAH!" at him, something, _anything_ to get a reaction out of him and snap him out of this denial.

Instead, she tempered her impatience with the realization that he did in fact see her. Tristan was staring right at her. If she wasn't real then he was doing one heck of a good job staring off into space muttering to himself.

"If I'm not real, then what am I?" Holly waited patiently for an answer and when it seemed that none was going to be forthcoming she fisted her hand in her skirt and moved away from him. Tristan's avid eyes followed her movements and she smiled at him coyly.

"I'm dreaming." _A nightmare. _Tristan seemed to shake himself at her look. Holly shook her head in response and moved behind him ever so slowly.

He didn't turn around. She crept as close to him as she dared, enough to see that his tunic was threadbare and patched in several places. She spied the long, curved blade that hung from his waist, the dagger he thought was well hidden within his boot and the grey starting to weave its way through his mass of dark hair.

"This is no dream." She whispered the words, deliberately testing him. His broad shoulders visibly tensed again and she knew that he had heard her. Delight threaded through her when she knew she had his full attention, though he never turned around to acknowledge her. Holly finally reached out to him, giving into the urge to touch him when she knew full well she couldn't. Human contact, she craved it and yet she'd never actually _feel_ it. The irony was not lost on her.

She ran her fingers across one broad shoulder and leaves swirled against his clothing in her wake. Tristan's head turned toward her, eyes flashing. Again that incredible tingling sensation she'd felt earlier radiated up her arm.

"Don't." The way he bit off the word made her retract her hand and regret her boldness, but only for a second. Had he felt her touch? She stared at her own hand, noting with dread that it was becoming more transparent by the second. Holly was fading and she could feel the strength ebbing from her quickly even as she was helpless to stop it.

Finally Tristan turned around to face her. His hand went reflexively to the hilt of his sword and his unusually colored eyes were flinty in their determination as he glared at her.

"Do not seek me out again." The finality of his tone shattered her and Holly felt her expression turn sour. She wanted to point out that he had been waiting for her. How could she not seek him out now that they'd finally made contact? She knew without a doubt that she would continue to crave this sort of interaction, any kind of interaction, even if she were faced with his stony silence.

"I don't know what you want from me, but rest assured you will not get it." Holly struggled to form a reply and found that she couldn't. The sound of her voice was fading as swiftly as she was. Crisp, biting wind drove its way through the glen. The last tendrils of mist dissipating as the moonlight broke through the trees and cast sharp, ominous shadows. Holly continued to stare at him, disappointment unfurling inside her until it threatened to consume her. The emotion must have shone in her eyes and for a single moment, something akin to compassion crossed his dark features. It was gone in a flash and she marveled at how quickly he could change his expressions.

"Go haunt the living. You'll find nothing but death with me." Holly blinked taken aback at his harshly spoken words and watched helplessly as he crossed into the forest once more. She could not follow him and she had not the strength to stop him. Tristan's form slowly faded into the shadows. He blended seamlessly with the landscape as he always did; she noted that the night suited him.

Tristan was a creature of the darkness, just like herself. Amber eyes flashed at her through the night, and she knew he was taking one last look back at her.

As she felt herself vanish completely, Holly knew without a doubt that he would return.

And when he did she would be ready.

* * *

He had tried to sleep and nothing worked. Tristan pushed himself up from the bed wearily. The result of days without sleep was beginning to take its toll, and with it came an increased sensitivity that made him so irritable that even Dagonet was beginning to voice his complaints.

Why had he let Gawain sway him into going to the tavern? He'd known it was a bad idea from the start, but the thought of going directly from the kitchens and into his rooms had been undesirable - the idea had been so abhorrent in fact, that he'd let himself consume vast quantities of ale in a very short period of time. Gawain, with his slick smile had managed to press one tankard on him after another and Tristan found that once he had started he couldn't say no.

After another ill-advised round of ale, Gawain had then proceeded to con him into a game of dice, which was not something he excelled in. Keenly feeling the effects of the alcohol and too little sleep, Tristan had agreed against his better judgment. At some point during the game the stakes had been increased and Tristan had proceeded to lose one of his best hunting knives on a very disastrous roll. The triumphant gleam in Gawain's eyes as he beheld the blade was enough to make the scout want to wipe the floor clean with him.

When he'd left, Gawain had given him a hearty slap on the back --which was enough to make him stumble-- much to his mortification. Once he had barreled his way into a set of borrowed chambers and collapsed unceremoniously on to the bed, Tristan realized dismally that drink once again had proven its folly.

The lumpy bed was foreign, his mud-caked boots were still on and he still tried desperately to will himself to sleep and failed.

Hours ticked by, familiar sounds drifted toward him, and Tristan tried to concentrate on them hoping that a simple distraction would lull him. Nothing seemed to work. He agitatedly kicked off his boots and stripped down, finding that even the weight of his clothing was pressing and irritating.

Tristan settled back on to the bed, he pounded the pillow into submission and buried his face within its deep confines. Finally, after what seemed like an age fatigue began pull him under. Tristan welcomed it despite his intense instinct not to give in to it. As his breathing slowed so did his heartbeat, and with it a sense of fear so acute that wracked his slumbering body in great shudders…

_She was cold, so very, very cold. Holly willed herself to get up, she needed to crawl away, hide, but there was no strength left in her body. She could feel the blood seeping from her wound, pooling around her on the forest floor, turning some of the dead leaves and bracken a thick dark black. She tried to cover the hole in her chest, to stem the flow of blood, but her arms wouldn't move. _

_He would find her soon. Holly could hear him in the distance. The sound of his heavy footfalls tearing through the brush made her tremble weakly in fear. She slid her eyes shut at his dawning approach. She knew the exact moment when his rough silhouette emerged from the thick fog and hovered over her as if he were studying his handiwork. _

_He knelt down next to her and placed warm, slick hands on her neck. He was weeping, she realized as his warm tears dripped onto her face. _Good_, she thought_, let him weep and regret. Let him weep and know._ Afraid of more pain, her mind began to shut down, Holly's thoughts slowed and her senses dulled._

_The image of Enid and Dara flashed in her mind and she lingered on them, finding it difficult to breathe. Her lungs felt heavy; blood bubbled up from her chest and clogged her throat, trickled from her mouth._

_Everything became dark, but she could still hear the birds in the trees, feel the cool breeze on her skin. She refused to let him know she lived; she wanted him to think she was dead. It wasn't terribly hard to pretend. _

_Holly lay there on the forest floor, the strength fading from her body with frightening speed. She would recover from this-- she had to. There was too much she had left to do and Enid needed her now more than ever. _

_Then suddenly and with absoluteness that signaled something was terribly wrong, there was no sound at all and Holly found herself cocooned in silence. _

_A great, bitterly cold gust of wind kicked up rustling the trees above her, blowing strands of her hair about her, covering her in a mantle of leaves. Holly felt them dance over her face and arms, felt the caress of each and every one of them._

_And then she felt nothing._

_

* * *

_

Tristan blinked slowly. The sharp images of the dream clung to the corners of his eyes and he could not shake them. An intense, searing pain in his chest arose so quickly that it forced him upright. Swallowing back the pain, he was startled to find that he was reflexively rubbing the spot where the girl in his dream had been wounded. Trying desperately to soothe the sting, he glanced down and noted darkly that chest was unharmed. The area that had caused him so much distress was red and raw, but completely unscathed.

Pushing his legs over the side of his bed, the comfort of the cold stone against his bare feet anchored him. For a single startling moment Tristan knew that the dream hadn't been a dream.

It had been several days since he'd visited the glen and with every day that crawled by, night would follow and the dreams would come. Tristan had tried and failed to prevent them in any way that he could and last night had been evidence of that. During the days he had worked himself into a stupor on the training grounds, hoping that exhaustion would make then stop. Like to night, he had tried to drown them in drink, hoping that the bliss of drunkenness would wash the images of them away, but so far nothing had worked.

He'd even gone so far as to try sleeping elsewhere, but even that had failed. The dreams had not ceased.

The memory of the blood pooling around her body and blooming onto the edges of the leaves that surrounded her would not leave the forefront of his mind.

Grabbing his breeches and tunic he dressed quickly. He had to get out. There would be no more sleeping this night that much he did know. Not bothering to clean up after himself, he made sure he had his usual cache of weapons and left. Galahad didn't bother to use these rooms anymore so Tristan seriously doubted that he would notice the mess.

The chill of the early morning air hit his skin immediately and it was a welcome sensation. The sun had yet to rise and only a small fraction of villagers were beginning to stir. The guards were changing shifts, he noted as he took the stairs two at a time toward the battlements. Two of the guards stood at attention and he dismissed them with a casual flick of his hand. He was not there to inspect them, at that point he wouldn't have cared if he'd found them sleeping. At least someone would have been.

Tristan approached the edge of the wall slowly, casting quick eyes over the familiar, darkened landscape. It was a clear crisp morning, but that did not hinder the mist that threaded its way through the tree trunks and ferns, toward the edge of the forest and creeping slightly into the clearing. He watched it with a cautious eye as it trailed back and forth gracefully.

Was she pacing?

How did no one else see it?

He looked at the others standing there and noticed that not even a single one of the guards looked in that particular direction.

Tristan gripped the stone of the wall in front of him with two hands, fingers biting into the surface as his eyes avidly followed the mist. That undeniable pull he'd experienced before yanked at his insides, but he staunchly resisted it. He could argue with himself that she was not real, but their encounter had been all too staggering for him to deny. The ghost existed; her reasons for seeking him out in particular were still unclear.

The memory of her cold fingers touching the marks on his cheeks was seared into his brain. The fact that he could feel her touch at all was remarkable, but did she know what the marks had meant? How could a ghost possibly know? How old was she? Who was she?

He knew of her death, he had witnessed it these past few nights in astonishing clarity, but the matter of her death was puzzling. There was one question that had pressed on him like a needle under a fingernail; who had killed her? The hazy image of her murder was the one thing aside from her pain that lingered in his mind.

It was an ominous shadow and he could feel her dread as her killer hovered over her in the darkness.

There were too many questions left unanswered, and as he studied the mist through narrowed eyes, he could have sworn he spied the telltale swirl of dead leaves drifting through it, though there'd been no wind to speak of.

It was the lady, and she was waiting for him.

Even as he fought the urge to go to her Tristan knew that in the end he would give in. Just like the night of their first encounter, he needed answers and despite his intense denial about the situation there was something about her that called to him.

He would go to her and he would find his answers, he just hoped that she didn't disappear before he could get the ones he needed.

**An: Chapter 5 is currently in the works. It is a very intense chapter and we learn a bit more about Holly. Tristan isn't going to give her an easy time of it and she wouldn't have it any other way. Holly, just like myself loves a challenge, and to say that Tristan is a challenge is an understatement! I love him anyways :)**

**Until Chapter 5, happy reading! **

**~S**


	5. Chapter 5

**I own nothing that seems familiar to you in this story, but you know that already. Holly is my own creation. Tristan is very irritated at me for this I assure you.**

**I have no excuses for the late appearance of this chapter. Real life sucks. Enough said. I promise to be a much more responsible authoress when it comes to following chapters... that is if I haven't written myself into a hole with this one. I'm taking a great chance with this plot line and I'm hoping you readers can stick with me to see it to its DRAMATIC and pleasing end. I've asked for your trust before and I ask for it again. I must remind everyone that this story is AU. Very AU- and will take a paranormal path from this chapter on. I didn't choose the 'Supernatural' category for nothing. :) **

**Once again thanks go to the beta team! You ladies know who you are and I love all three of you :) **

"_A blind man will not thank you for a looking-glass."-_**Thomas Fuller**

Chapter 5

_Alone…Alone…Alone_, Holly sighed impatiently and whirled around; if she could have stalked sulkily back toward the glen she would have. Except her feet made no sound—actually, they didn't technically touch the ground, so stomping off in a fit wouldn't have worked for her anyway.

The silence that surrounded her since Tristan had left so many days ago was beginning to wear on her. She didn't even find her usual ways to pass the time as amusing as she once used to. When the isolation began to get to her, as it often did, she tended to act out in unusual ways.

Hunters did not appreciate a sudden covering of thick fog when a fine stag was within their sights. Men who tried to set fires when they knew the forest was too dry didn't enjoy the frustrating lack of a spark to their flint, or the howling wind that whipped their freshly gathered kindling about the forest. The enticement to scare a few wayward children when she knew full well their parents did not approve of their nightly jaunts into the forest proved too much for Holly. This action always ended badly and despite the strong desire to scare them, children she learned, had very high-pitched screams. She did not much care for the ear-piercing sound.

Realizing that Tristan would not be visiting her again tonight, she slowly made her way back into the glen. The desire to seek him out was overwhelming, but as always, when Holly had tried to cross the border into the clearing she found she couldn't. Why she still desired to test it was beyond her. She had learned long ago that it drained her of energy so quickly that even attempting it would leave her so exhausted that she couldn't rise for days.

The woods held her power. The forest rejuvenated her and she had been bound to it since the day she had awoken as a spirit. She loved this place and loathed it in the same turn. Even when she had been alive this glen had been her sanctuary. This was a place she could go to escape the tensions of her household, the expectations of her family, and just be Holly.

She floated toward the mound that was once the old poachers hut. She and her sister Dara had played here as children. The now moss-covered lump of ruins reminded her that many years had passed since she'd been a girl. This land had seen many changes and Holly, regardless of her best efforts, had not managed to change with them. The feeling of being trapped and alone threatened to consume her once again. She held it at bay by watching a pair of squirrels chase each other from branch to branch. Their playful antics distracted her for a moment and Holly felt herself smile despite her earlier musings.

Animals didn't always respond well to her presence, but when she was in a calmer mood they didn't exactly shy away from her. Some had even been her companions of a sort over the years and they reminded her that life carried on beyond death. Holly pushed herself into a sitting position directly on the center of the old hut. Pulling her knees to her chest and sighed deeply. She didn't need to breathe, but she found that sighing did help to relieve tension even if her lungs didn't benefit from it.

The prickling light of dawn began to paint the dark sky a pale pink. The sun would rise soon; she could feel it. And with the first touch of its rays she would fade. Holly, despite having endured this cycle for years, still despised the transition from night to day. The warmth of the sun and everything it stood for was a reminder of the things she had lost and would probably never have again. She found the cool, impartial moonlight to be infinitely more flattering and tolerable.

A strong flutter of wings interrupted her dark reverie and her wayward attention was drawn to a pair of sharp yellow eyes blinking at her from a nearby tree. Holly rose slowly. She knew those keen eyes, had known that bird since it had been a weak, tufted, hatchling. Fionn-ever a clever bird- did not stir at her approach. She only blinked slowly when Holly reached out to stroke the sleek feathers of the magnificent hawk's downy chest.

"Clever, pretty bird." Holly murmured, as Fionn circumspectly stared at her, apparently enduring the caress of her eerie fingers, and Holly felt a true smile play on her lips. If the hawk was near, its keeper was surely not too far behind. She sensed him before she saw him. His presence was like a flame, bright and burning and Holly felt drawn toward its dangerous warmth.

She turned just in time to see him cross the edge of the glen. Excitement began to build within her and a low hanging mist covered the ground instantly as a result. Willing herself to calm, she drew back the fog and was taken aback when Tristan didn't acknowledge her at first. Instead his long legs ate up large patches of earth as if he were on a mission. He walked right past her and Holly was too startled to stop him.

"Wait!" She cried, still floating in mid-air next to Fionn. Tristan stopped then, turning slightly toward her, and Holly found herself staring at a man who looked as morose as she felt.

Dark circles surrounded his amber eyes and his tangled hair was even more a mess than usual. His clothing had been thrown on in haste, but the tightly coiled tension that surrounded him radiated outward in strong waves as if it were a physical presence pushing at her.

Holly slowly floated down from Fionn's perch and cautiously approached Tristan as if he were a rabid animal. She did not want him to flee from her. She'd been waiting for days to see him again.

"Where are you going?" her voice crackled with disuse again, but she managed to form the words without any trouble. He seemed hesitant in his answer. Instead he continued to stare at her, his gaze tired, troubled, curious, but not frightened. Holly grew bolder as she came closer to him. She gave him one of her brightest and most welcoming of smiles and he looked for the first time to be genuinely perplexed by her.

"Do you have a name?" Tristan finally managed to ask and surprise must have registered on her face at the question. He looked immediately away from her then back again, narrowing his eyes ever so slightly. The wariness he was trying so valiantly to hold at bay had returned in that moment, and Holly was troubled to realized how much that perturbed her. He had no reason to be suspicious of her.

"You wish to know my name?" Holly tried desperately to hide the excitement in her voice and failed miserably. Honestly, who got excited over something as simple as that? She did apparently.

"Yes." He snapped then seemed to rein himself in. "What did they call you when… While…"

"Before I died?" Holly managed to gently finish for him. He gave her a crisp nod, some discernable emotion flashing behind his too bright eyes and gone before she could get a firm grasp on it.

"Holly. My family called me Holly." The soft words floated from her and she knew the exact moment he registered them.

He turned away from her once again and she was startled to notice the sharpness of his profile in the early dawn light. His nose had been broken, his beard could have used a trim, and a rogue braid was tucked carelessly behind his ear. Holly stared, unable to help herself as she found him fascinating. The man before her, she realized, was an astonishingly handsome albeit taciturn creature.

"Holly," Tristan mumbled to himself as if he were testing the sound of the word on his tongue. Hearing her name for the first time in over twenty-five years snapped Holly out of her ogling. She nodded, her grin encouraging. He looked back at her again, this time his keen gaze roving over all of her as if seeing her for the first time.

"How long have you been dead?" His question was blunt and to the point. Holly had to admire him for it.

"Over twenty-five years. Before I died, I had just witnessed my twentieth winter." He looked down at leaves trampled under his feet, absorbing the information she was telling him. "It was long before you came here."

Holly didn't know what possessed her to add that but she had the inclination that he needed that bit of information for some reason. Tristan's head snapped up at her words, those quick golden eyes assessing her again and Holly didn't mind it one bit. It had been so long since a man had looked at her- so long that _anyone_ had looked at her that she welcomed his piercing stare.

"Your hair was…" his hand reached out ever so slightly toward her. Yet Tristan drew it back again so quickly Holly thought she imagined the motion. Reaching up, she fingered her own colorless locks, wondering what he was trying to say. The dreaded oak leaves that seemed to plague her tangled themselves in her ethereal locks and Holly realized at that moment how much she hated them.

"My hair was…?" She let the question linger in the air, hoping he would finish.

"Dark." Tristan bit off, "you had dark hair." Holly felt her brows knit in confusion. How did he know that?

"Yes. I had dark hair, but how did you-?"

"Come with me." He turned around in one fluid motion and was through the trees before she had time to properly react to the fact that he had just interrupted her. Tristan turned back sharply and his glare indicated that he expected her to follow him. Trying to figure out what he was thinking at that moment was impossible, his only discernable emotion was irritation at her lack of cooperation.

Shaking her head slightly Holly decided it was best not to irritate the only human whom she could properly interact with. She had no trouble trying to keep up with him. He was nimble and quick on his feet, and knew these woods almost better than she did. Holly could feel dawn's warm light creeping ever closer to the horizon and she prayed that it would hold off just a bit longer now that Tristan was here. She would hate to fade before they got to their mysterious and apparently- judging by his quick pace- important destination.

They slowed about two miles out toward the east and Holly felt an odd sense of foreboding envelop her. She had a difficult time distinguishing if it came from herself or her companion. Taking a look at her surroundings the familiarity of the woods told her she had taken this path many times before, once a month as a matter of fact.

She had just taken this path three days ago when the silver moon was nigh. Holly had been unwittingly controlled by the fingers of an invisible and undeniable energy, one that clutched and pulled at her, forcing her to relive the last moments of her life.

There was no way he could be leading her to that place. He had no idea where _that place_ was. She tried to reason with herself, tried to convince herself to continue to follow him. They didn't have far to go.

She knew where Tristan was leading her. Holly stopped immediately and chastised herself for allowing it to happen. The elms, oaks and pines that surrounded them were darker, taller, _and older._

Straight ahead it towered over them both like some giant gnarly beast. Dead, brittle leaves surrounded the base of it.

Holly hated those damn leaves even as she felt them whip around her legs and hair. She swiped at one, only to watch it pass through her hand completely unaffected. At that point she would have given anything to be corporal, to be able to crush just one.

Tristan had stopped; he stood at the trunk of the massive oak tree and stared at the ground. She watched, stunned, as he moved to his knees, his hands, spread out before him, unsettling a few of the dead leaves on the ground.

Holly felt a strange tremor go through her from his action. There was a disturbance in the earth and she shivered from the force of it.

This was not happening. They were not here. Not at this place. Not now.

"Here." He said loud enough for her to hear. "This is where you died."

Holly couldn't find the strength to speak, instead a great blast of wind barreled though the forest and the chill of it shook the remaining leaves from the branches. They floated peacefully to the ground the same way they had that one dark day. Mist curled itself around the base of the knotted oak and Holly tried to stymie her rioting emotions and failed. Before she knew it, it turned into a fog so thick she strained to see his outline mere feet in front of her surrounded them.

"Won't you come closer?" His lyrical, alluring voice floated toward her and she found it almost impossible to resist.

"No!" She shouted and another blast of chill wind followed the sound of her voice. The force of it pushed Tristan forward, blew his hair into his face and he had to brace himself against the trunk of the tree to keep from falling over.

"You died here, didn't you?" He called back at her. He forced himself to get to his feet and Holly watched as he managed to walk toward her even as leaves and forest debris flew at him from the brutal strength of the wind she was creating. Holly willed herself to calm down once again but only managed a fraction of what she had hoped for. There were too many emotions tied to this place. She would never be calm here. Could never rest easily. The battering wind slowed slightly as she forced herself to look at the man before her.

"Why did you bring me here?" She demanded, barely suppressing the urge to flee, to get away from this horrible place.

"I saw you die. Watched you bleed out. Watched you choke on your own blood. I felt your fear. I felt your pain." He reached up and touched his chest, his fingers bit into the fabric of his tunic over his heart. The raw force of his words shook her. Tristan stared at her; the burning intensity in his eyes frightened her. He looked crazed.

"How?" she managed weakly she never expected him to know, never expected him to find out how brutal her death had been.

"I dreamt it."

"Dreamt it? But how-"

"I've dreamt of you before. Only I didn't know it was _you_ then. You came to me in my sleep as a boy. I thought I had imagined you."

"I… I…" Holly searched for an explanation as to how he could have known such details about her death. How much of her life had he witnessed in his dreams? Did he see her sister? Did he know of her family? She had known he was a Seer, that the marks under his eyes were symbols of his gift. She didn't have any idea he possessed this kind of power. A power to see memories- her memories. Could he be a messenger between two worlds? Her people believed that such beings existed, it would explain why she was so drawn to him, but for him to be so ignorant of is gifts left her puzzled. Had no one shown him the way?

"Why are you doing this to me?" He asked sharply as he attempted to reach for her, realizing a fraction of a second too late that he couldn't physically touch her. His fingers met with nothing but air as they passed through her upper arm. Tristan stood there staring at his hand, mist filtering through his fingers before he clenched it into a tight fist.

"Why did you choose me?" There was a note in his voice, a desperate underlying threat that if she lied to him it just might push him over the edge.

"What do you want me to say?" Holly asked her throat tight. She had no answer for him.

"I want you to leave me alone."

"No." Call her selfish but she couldn't do that, not now.

"You're _dead_." Tristan said as if that was enough to make her go away.

"And you're not. I need you." She said forcing the words out. It was getting difficult to speak, her energy stores becoming increasingly depleted. Holly had her show of temper to blame. It didn't help that the warm rays of dawn were cresting ever higher over the horizon.

"You don't need me. You only wish to torment me."

_If only that were true_, Holly thought to herself spitefully. Tristan could see her for a reason, she didn't appear to just anyone. She was not a sadistic creature. Holly craved interaction, wanted to know if there might be a possibility that Tristan could free her. She sensed the latent power in him even as he struggled to suppress it. She had no desire to torment him. She only wanted to be near him, learn about him.

"Even I'm not that cruel." She countered, the sounds of her words faded as they reached him. He scoffed at her; a dubious smile twisted his lips before he realized something was terribly wrong.

Tristan looked at her sharply, and Holly looked at her own hands watching helplessly as they began to disappear. Holly knew then that sunlight was beginning to break its way through the trees. When it hit her she would dissolve-her conscious would remain but her spectral form would vanish.

"Dawn has come." She whispered to herself. Gathering the last stores of her energy she drew closer to him and he did not shy away. Instead he looked puzzled and fascinated at the changes in her.

"Come back to me tonight and I will try to explain more." There was a pleading tone to her voice and she hoped that it conveyed her sincerity. Holly needed to speak with him. Unfortunately he shook his head and stepped away.

"No."

She reached toward him with the last of her strength. "Please, Tristan." He drew away from her seeking hands and Holly remembered to late how much he disliked being touched. He curled his lip; his disdain for her so powerful it showed plainly on his face and Holly once again felt a bitter sense of disappointment steal over her. Was she never to make headway with this man?

"Rot in hell." He said with a quiet fierceness, seconds before the sun hit her fully. Holly felt the very second she vanished. An extreme sense of anger shot through because once again Tristan was going to turn her away. Despite her helplessness and the fact that she couldn't stop the sun from rising, she managed to get the last word before she disappeared completely. Her words resonated throughout the forest and Holly had no doubt he heard her.

"I already am."

* * *

Tristan stalked from the area as if a beast of prey were nipping at his heals. He'd gone in search of the ghost intending to get answers. Instead he left with more questions and a burning desire to heed her request to return to her when night fell.

Fionn was impatiently circling the glen once he'd crossed into the sunlit landscape. Tristan clucked his tongue at her and she swooped down to his outstretched arm. She blinked at him, her steadfast demeanor demanding nothing. Tristan loved the fact that she was not a difficult creature. There were too few of her kind in the world.

He stroked her breast with gentle fingers, willing himself to relax. The ghost's voice still rang through the trees and he could not still the pounding of his heart nor the throbbing in his ears. Her exclamation had hit its mark and Tristan despite his best efforts could not shake loose their latest encounter.

_Holly. _ The ghost had a name. He also knew one other fact: The ghost could feel fear. She was obviously afraid when he'd led her to that particular oak tree. She had staunchly refused to come any closer. He had felt a strange force coming from the tree, as if it wanted him to pay particular attention to it. Tristan had thought perhaps he had seen a slight shimmer of something mysterious surrounding it. A field of darkness mixed with light that had called to him and obviously frightened the ghost. Had Tristan not been so focused on the spirit's extreme reaction to the area he would have studied the big oak more closely.

Tristan had no idea what he had sought to find by leading the spirit to place of her death, but he had certainly not expected such a fierce outcome. She had a strange power over this forest, that he was just beginning to realize was tied to her emotions. This line of thinking forced him to grasp that the ghost was sentient. As much as this bothered him, Tristan could no longer believe that she was something that he had imagined or brought forth against his own will. She existed. Of this he was positive. Today had been proof of that.

If she did exist, then how had no one noticed her before? Why did she seek him now? If she had been a part of this forest for as long as she had mentioned, then why did she not come to him in her spirit form when he was a boy? Strange things had always happened to him. Tristan had always brushed them aside, paid them no heed, and he managed to scrape by day after day, wholly aware that some vital part of his make-up forever separated him from the rest of his comrades.

He thought of his mother once more. Despite his best efforts she had been weighing heavily on his thoughts lately. If she were here with him now would she be able to tell him anything? Would she even be lucid enough to answer any of his questions? Doubtful. Tristan felt his features twist bitterly at the thought and forced himself to relax his facial muscles. Pushing the emotions deep down he was able to take a deep breath gather himself and focus again.

Fionn continued to stare at him, those curious eyes of hers seeing too much. Clever bird. Tristan nudged her under her beak gently before letting her loose once more. He watched her circle the glen, soaring with a gracefulness he admired and envied in the same turn. She was a loyal companion, much like his mare Skye. They never demanded. They only accepted.

Making up his mind to fetch something to break his fast from the kitchens, Tristan began to make his way out of the forest when something peculiar stopped him in his tracks. He slowly and deliberately turned to look over his shoulder. Someone else was near him. He could feel it. It was as if a cold hand had reached out and wrapped itself around the back of his neck, its grip vice-like and unrelenting.

It was not Holly. Her presence was never cloying and dark. When he closed his eyes the only color he saw was blackberry blue- a wicked color. He inhaled sharply; a musty dampness and the metallic tang of blood hung heavily in the morning air. He walked slowly, allowing these senses he'd been honing since he was a boy lead him to the source of the disturbance he was feeling.

When he reached the stream and spied a hunched figure rooting around in the tall grass as if looking for something important, he stopped dead. She sensed him as well and stopped her harried scraping. Her balding head jerked up quickly and she sniffed the air before turning to look at him with her one remaining eye. Greasy, unwashed gray hair hung in her face. Her wrinkled countenance was streaked with sweat and dirt, but her thin lips curled in an impression of a smile at his approach, exposing the few teeth she had left. It was the hermit woman Mab.

She crooked a gnarled finger at him in invitation. She made a scoffing sound that sounded brittle, like dried bracken when he refused to come any closer. Mab continued her rooting, her movements jerky but quick for someone of her advanced age. She suddenly stopped, a great cackle escaped her, and she drew up a dagger from the forest floor- a familiar dagger. Reagan's dagger. Just when Tristan was about to intercede, Mab procured a pair of dead squirrels that had been lying by her feet.

Without ceremony she began to gut her quarry. Black fur was peeled away from their bodies and she seemed to hum with delight when the blood spilled over and onto her hands. She rubbed them together gleefully and Tristan decided then that he had seen enough. He killed for survival, to feed the villagers. Mab was taking a particular pleasure in gutting those dead creatures. Her presence had made him uncomfortable, but her show of enjoyment at having an audience as she skinned the squirrels had offset him.

Tristan turned to leave, determined to put this whole bizarre morning behind him when Mab finally decided to speak.

"Blood!" She sing-songed in a voice that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. "The blood disturbs you."

Tristan stopped and turned to look at her, his eyes narrowed. At his look Mab chuckled anew.

"You've turned your back on your blood, boy, and now you pay the price!" She slapped her hands together and her freshly coated palms splattered blood on her threadbare clothing.

"You know not of what you speak, _crone_." Tristan hissed, angry at himself at having endured the old woman's presence this long. Mab laughed this time, a long grating sound. A sound that carried with it a tinge of madness and of malice, it made him realize he'd tarried in her presence too long.

"You ignore fate too long and she comes a lookin' for you." The old woman fixed her eye at him in a steady gaze that spoke volumes, but it somehow portrayed a darkness Tristan was unfamiliar with. It was enough. Enough to make him realize this woman was not to be trusted, that she was obviously mad beyond words.

"Save your breath, old woman." He cast over his shoulder before he began to make his way away from the strange and grisly scene. As he stalked through the forest toward the wall, Mab called after him, her scratchy voice caring oddly in the thick forest.

"Blood will tell!" She cried, laughing wildly before adding in a shrill voice, "_Penance_, scout! She's your due!"

As Mab's mad laughter faded, her strange words continued to follow him like a great gust of air, pushing at his back as he exited the forest and into the harsh, blinding light of the morning sun.

**AN: Old crazy Mab, has a bigger part to play in this story than you realize. Watch out for her. Tristan while mistrustful (with good reason) doesn't realize the power she possesses. Holly hasn't given up and we learn more of her back story in the next chapter (coming soon I promise). Thank you for sticking with me and my fickle ways. I had a brief moment (three months) of insanity and am now back full force. I will never willingly abandon any of my stories and I ask you readers to please bare with me. This story will take a very decidedly AU standing, but I have great plans for it and for Tristan and Holly. I know this seems like more of a transition chapter and there is a reason for that. Holly isn't going to have an easy time convincing Tristan to help her. That's all I can say right now. So sorry again for the long wait. **

**I want to personally thank the lovely and talented Kamiea for drawing a splendid picture of Tristan and Holly, the link to which can be found on my Profile page. It truly is wonderful. I also want to thank kvsgrl for reading and reviewing every chapter of Eternal Knight. You helped me to finally get off my behind and post this chapter! Huge thanks to you both! **


	6. Chapter 6

**As usual, I own nothing that seems familiar to you in this story, but you know that already. Holly is my own creation. Tristan is very, _very_ irritated at me for this I assure you.**

**Many, many thanks go out to the wonderful Beta team. Leigh, Murt and Jo I wouldn't be able to do this without you. Seriously. **

**This chapter is dedicated to Wintherose and PetiteJeanne your reviews inspire me, enlighten me and always put a smile on my face. **

**As promised here is chapter 6. **

_"There are haunters of the silence, ghosts that hold the heart and brain."_- **Madison Julius Cawein**

Chapter 6

_Mâtar was having another one of her spells,__ Tristan realized warily as he pushed aside the animal hide that served as a front door to their hut. She was pacing frantically, mumbling, pulling at her hair. She came to him at once and clutched at him so fiercely that she pierced the fabric of his jerkin and cut into his skin. Tristan barely had a chance to ask her what was troubling her when she cut him off; the look she gave him chilled him to his very bones._

"_They are coming, __puça__. Can't you hear them?" she whispered, her eyes tormented. _

"_I hear no one, __Mâtar__. Nothing," he replied in a soft voice, wanting only to console her. __Mâtar's__ madness came and went in waves and she had been of a sound mind now for weeks- until tonight, that is. _

_Her fingers curled into the thin sleeves of his tunic and she gave him a frantic shake, as if that would make him hear and see the things that had her so frightened. _

"_They are coming to take you away!" she shouted, dark hair spilling into her eyes, making her look every inch the madwoman the people of their tribe claimed her to be. Tristan refused to cower at her tone. She had yelled at him before and he had withstood her rages, but for some reason tonight there was a sense of desperation in his mother that he had never witnessed before. _

_Mâtar__ pushed him away forcefully and his gangly body went careening into a small table, bumping it over. Tristan turned quickly and set it upright before it spilled what little food they had onto the ground. He glared hard at his mother, wanting to understand her and at the same time resenting her fiercely for these fits. She kept him from his friends; she kept him from his horse, Skye, and his desire to explore the lands that surrounded them. _

_He craved freedom from his mother and at the same time he didn't know what to do without her. She was his only family. _

_Tristan's chest burned tightly with an emotion so raw he couldn't name it, and with a will he was beginning to hone he pushed it down until it dulled and he could focus again on __Mâtar__. _

_She bent over one of the pallets, apparently looking for something. She continued to mumble to herself, seeming to forget that he was even the same room. He approached her cautiously, wondering if he could safely subdue her long enough to find the herb woman and have her make __Mâtar__ a brew that would settle her nerves and force her to sleep. _

_He had taken three slow steps toward her when she turned with such speed that he was taken aback. Her dark eyes burned with a strange light and she stared at him, almost through him. She continued to mumble words like: protect, punish and death. An oddly shaped bundle of cloth was clutched in her fierce grip. _

_She brought the bundle to her chest and began a subtle rocking motion back and fourth. _

_Tristan reached hesitantly toward her and the cloth bundle, not wanting to startle her in any way. To his utter surprise she acceded the parcel without protest, a small smile curving her lips as he unraveled the cloths to discover a sword, a strange one that was half the size of him and had a curved blade, with odd symbols that were carved into the sharp metal. _

_The blade glinted at him brightly in the dimly lit hut as if it were winking at him. _

_Tristan grasped the hilt and for a madding second he heard the screams of a hundred men echoing in his ears. The sound was so startling that he dropped the blade instantly. It hit to the floor with a loud clang. _

_His mother's gasp startled him and he reached for the sword once more. Once he had his fingers wrapped around the hilt there was nothing but the crackle of the fire in the brazier and the sounds of his mother's absent humming. Strange warmth emanated from the blade and radiated up his forearm. He stared in fascination. _

"_It belonged to your father. It's all I have left of him, aside from you." __Mâtar__'s voice floated toward him and he barely heard her, as he could not take his gaze from the wondrous sword. _

"_It will protect you once you learn to wield it. He has sworn it to me." Tristan's gaze shot back to her, startled, as she spoke of his father as if he were alive, though this was not the first time she had done so. Her gaze was focused somewhere over his shoulder. For the first time that evening she seemed calm. She approached him this time, her sad, haunted gaze riveted to his face. _

"_You must promise to always listen, __puça__, there is nothing to be afraid of," she had said this very thing to him before but he had never truly understood what she meant. "They are here to help you, help us. Keep your eyes open." She brushed her fingers lightly over the marks under his eyes; they mirrored the symbols on her cheeks. "You have been a stubborn boy but there are those who will make you see and you should not turn away from them." _

_She released a shaky sigh and he tilted his head at the sound. His mother had never addressed him so and he wondered what was going on in her muddled mind. _

"_I have dreaded this day, the day you would leave me and I can not bear to see you go." Tristan looked at her sharply, wondering what she was implying. _

"_I go nowhere, __Mâtar__. Do not fret." She smiled at him absently, her strangely colored eyes swirling again. She patted his cheek affectionately and Tristan couldn't help but lean into the contact. He watched as she settled on her pallet, once more pulled the blankets over her slight form and informed him that he should go ready Skye. _

"_Ready Skye for what?" But she did not answer. Her eyes closed and her body stilled. Tristan sank down on to his own pallet and stared at his mother from across the room. He watched the firelight play over her features and wondered what caused her strange fits. It did not matter. She was calm now. Sleeping. He set the sword by his bedside and forced himself to lie down. He closed his eyes and heard nothing. Saw nothing. _

_The following morning when he awoke, a strangely clad Roman soldier stood at his bedside. They had come for him. The soldier tossed Tristan out of his bed and forced him outside. He tried to pull from the man's grasp as he called for his mother. But there was no answer. Her pallet was empty, the very essence of her presence absent from the hut. _

_The realization that hit him like a slap to the face as he was forcibly dragged out into the bright morning sunlight: __Mâtar__ was gone and Tristan would never see her again._

* * *

Tristan stumbled into the tavern the next morning with a foul taste in his mouth and a slight throbbing behind his eyelids. He had slept poorly these last few days. Dreams of his mother plagued him at every turn. He wondered if Mab had cursed him somehow that morning he had met her in the forest. The woman was evil, but he wasn't about to push aside the fact that Mâtar had been haunting him as of late and he had seen no hint of mist in the forest for three days.

Tristan forced himself to sit, leaning heavily on his forearms. A disapproving noise that was distinctly feminine sounded to his left. He didn't have to turn to know who was standing next to him. Without a word of acknowledgment Vanora slid a bowl of steaming white beans and oats in front of him before pouring him a strong mug of ale. The smell of food roused him somewhat.

"You look ill," Vanora said flatly, one hand on her hip. Tristan's mouth quirked at that.

He slid his bloodshot gaze toward her and blinked at the yellow haze that surrounded her; it practically blinded him.

"You look pregnant. Again," Tristan provided without preamble, turning away from the glow. Vanora's grip on the pitcher of ale faltered slightly and her eyes widened.

"How did you…?" But she didn't finish. Her lips pressed into a fine line and her irritation flared at him. Being used to her fits of temper, Tristan didn't pay her any mind and began shoveling the food into his mouth, hoping that it would prevent an awkward conversation from starting.

Vanora huffed impatiently but knew better than to prod him for information when he was eating. She walked away to serve another table, leaving him in blessed peace. For about five minutes.

Someone jostled the bench next to him and shouted for food. Tristan barely managed to suppress the urge to roll his eyes. Lancelot glared at him silently with an air of impatience so strong it practically pushed at him. Tristan set down his cup rather forcefully and wiped the dripping liquid from his beard on his shirtsleeve before he acknowledged him.

"No."

Lancelot blinked at him in surprise. "You don't even know what I was going to say."

"Yes, I do. And no, I won't."

Lancelot let loose one of those long-suffering sighs and turned to his own food. They were silent for a moment.

"You know the forest better than anyone, particularly that part of it. I need your help," the other knight ground out, as if it were very difficult to ask for his aid. Knowing Lancelot, it probably was.

"Have Arthur send Gawain in my stead. I want no part of that crumbling old villa." Lancelot had approached him days ago about this favor, and hadn't stopped bothering him since. Tristan did not go near that place. Never went towards it. There was a sense of evil there. Dagonet was the only other one to feel it. It affected no one else. Now Lancelot wanted to see if he could restore the place. See if it was habitual for his new wife. Arthur had absorbed the lands and the villa into the kingdom years ago, as it had once been a fraction all its own at one time.

There was only one small kink in Lancelot's restoration plans. A dying roman lord had sent several missives to Arthur in the last few months. It seemed that the villa had once belonged to his family and he wanted it back and entailed into his estate, an estate he planned to leave for a daughter. This was a thing unheard of. Men did not leave lands to their female offspring. The roman's unusual request had intrigued Arthur and had dampened Lancelot's plans.

Lancelot wanted to prove that the estate was uninhabitable (in a sense) and hoped that the old lord would let it go so that he could be able to build on the land. Arthur had granted Lancelot this one concession: If he could find someone who knew the land, and who, upon inspection, found the place in sorry condition then Arthur could with good conscience write to the lord stating that the villa and lands were worth nothing and Lancelot would have free reign over it.

Tristan hated the place and wanted no part of it. Lancelot would prod him with questions and accusations until it became too much for Tristan to bear: how could he explain to his friend that the place crawled with evil without revealing things he had no intention of revealing? Instead, Tristan remained characteristly silent, as it usually proved to be a very useful tactic on his part in the past. Lancelot, however, would not let this go.

"Come with me this afternoon," came the order, disguised as a request. Tristan looked at Lancelot sideways.

"No." He pushed his bowl away from him and stood on steadier legs, fully intent on leaving the tavern. He wanted to see if there was any indication of fog today.

"Your horse will be saddled and ready for you in one hour." Tristan turned to look back at his brother-in-arms. His steady gaze spoke volumes and for once Lancelot looked equally determined. Lancelot's devotion to Reagan and his obvious desire to build a good life for the pair of them seemed to win over Tristan's uncanny wariness and strong sense of foreboding.

As usual, Tristan did not give a reply. Instead he strode from the tavern, already reluctantly aware that he would meet Lancelot in the stables in one hour despite his earlier protestations.

* * *

Tristan lifted himself onto the back of Skye in one practiced motion. The mare barely moved, so attuned was she to her master. Tristan felt his lips curl into a smile as he affectionately patted her neck. He adjusted himself in the saddle and wondered at the fact that his position on his horse always felt like home.

Grabbing at the reins, he followed Lancelot and Malachi out of the sables at a slow trot. The weather this early winter morning was fine and there was barely a nip of snow in the air. The weak British sunlight filtered through the clouds, pale yellow beams lighting upon bare tree branches.

The ride to the edge of the forest was uneventful and Tristan was reluctant to admit that he was enjoying himself. He watched as Lancelot turned back to motion him forward.

"I want you to lead. You know the way better than I do." Tristan had expected this. Suppressing the sigh building in his lungs, he moved forward. Skye was a competent companion riding in wooded areas and she seemed just as reluctant as he when he steered her toward the east.

The scents of the forest in early winter bombarded him. He had hoped to sense something else, but there was no mist on this clear cold day. The marked disappointment he felt at this realization startled the scout. He shook off the feeling easily, not wanting to think of it again.

The two men made their way through the forest with nary a hitch in their ride. Little was said between them except for a few comments here and there directing their steeds over bumps and precarious places in the long overgrown trail.

Soon enough the outlines of a structure came into view between the barrier of trees. Tristan knew they were getting close as an air of apprehension began to grow stronger within him. He easily spied the first crumbling remains of what once had to be a great gateway. The old structure must have been grand indeed in its day. Someone important, and wealthy, had been housed here.

The land that surrounded it was fine and rich, and it was no wonder that Arthur wanted it absorbed into his lands. It would make for a prime area for a village, so close to the Wall, and who better to oversee it than his second in command? Lancelot in his eagerness nudged Malachi into a fast trot and rode ahead of Tristan with an air of purpose that was nearly contagious.

Tristan followed him slowly, the hair on the back of his neck rising in awareness seconds before he was besieged with the scent of lavender. His eyes darted back and forth but there was nothing to alert him to Holly's presence. Nothing but that sweet smell that was so incredibly out of place.

Trying to still the pounding of his heart, Tristan finally met Lancelot in a flat area that must have at one time been the courtyard. Lancelot had already dismounted and was cautiously walking the structure's perimeter. Tristan knew at once that he was oblivious to any changes in the air. He doubted very seriously that Lancelot smelled the lavender scent as he did.

The decaying villa sat there, surrounded by overgrown flora looking more ominous than anything Tristan had seen before. Wild vines, now barren in winter, looked like black veins crawling up the faded grey walls. The outer western wall had started to crumble; large chunks of grey stone littered the ground nearby. It made Tristan keenly aware of how old the edifice was. He knew, on an elemental level, that something unsettling had happened there.

Tristan took note of Skye's mounting trepidation and took it upon himself to tie her and Malachi outside of the gates. The further the horses were away from the villa, the better, he thought to himself. He turned then, something flashing in his peripheral vision: it was nothing more than a spark, but it was there nonetheless, and he knew suddenly why the villa had so disturbed him. The crumbling structure was not as empty as it appeared.

"The roof is solid," Lancelot called out to him, breaking Tristan from his disturbing thoughts. "And the standing walls seem strong enough." Lancelot kicked at the base of one as if to prove an example, and Tristan suspected that he shouldn't disturb the daunting structure that way.

"Let's venture inside," Lancelot offered, unable to hide his eagerness. _I'd rather not_, Tristan thought to himself but followed Lancelot, despite his misgivings. As he ambled slowly towards the building, he had to wonder: if Lancelot had possessed the keen senses that Tristan did, he would not be so enthusiastic to move Reagan into a house that was more than likely possessed by spirits and tumbling down around their ears.

As he followed Lancelot, the scent of lavender became stronger until it was all that he could smell. The heady fragrance was so overpowering that he could practically taste it on his tongue. He wondered if Holly was watching him this very moment. Her presence was here, but it was faint, weak, and he was curious if she had any ties to this place. If she did, why didn't she make herself known to him?

Holly had always seemed eager to seek him out and that she should back away from him at such a time and place was puzzling to say the least. His eyes scanned the outlying forests once more, yet there was not a single tendril of mist to confirm his suspicions.

Was she hiding? Or was there someone else out there watching him?

Again, that same bright flash caught the corner of his eye and he pivoted on his heel towards it. This time he caught the glimpse of a figure darting behind the back of the house. Tristan blinked and craned his neck around to get a better look.

"Are you coming?" called Lancelot impatiently from the front of the villa.

"No. I want to check out back first," he replied, his feet already making strides around the side of the house. He stopped abruptly, as a familiar dark and cloying presence instantly filled him with dread. Mab was near and every instinct inside Tristan warned him to stay away from her. Her dry chuckle was carried on the wind and for some reason he knew she sensed him as well.

Tristan's hackles rose but he'd be Gods damned if he shied away from an old crone, one whom he could easily fell with a single swipe of the sword strapped to his hip. He wrapped his fingers around the hilt and he felt that familiar comforting warmth radiate up his forearm. Tristan's footfalls were light as he crept up behind her, but Mab turned with uncanny speed for someone so old. Her thin lips curled upward and her remaining eye took him in as sharply as ever and he felt his skin crawl in reaction.

She appeared to be standing in what was once a garden. Mab was obviously in a hurry. She spun away from him, pulling at sodden, dead weeds with a strength that startled Tristan. Once her fist was full, she turned back to him and scuttled toward the edge of the forest placing a dirty gnarled finger to her lips. Mab motioned to the villa then to the side of her head. She tapped her ear in some sort of signal and then was gone.

Tristan stood there pondering at the strange encounter when the weak sun dipped behind a cloud and it the wind gathered in strength. A bitter cold ripped through him and he turned back toward the villa. He could hear Lancelot inside, rooting around and Tristan wanted to shout at him to disturb nothing, but knew it would do him no good. And then he heard it. It was low and soft and at first Tristan thought he was imagining it. Gooseflesh arose on the backs of his arms as a haunting melody drifted toward him, a woman singing a lullaby.

Drawn towards the source of the sound, Tristan moved closer to the villa and reluctantly entered what he suspected had been a servant's door. The rotted piece of wood hung on its hinges and all but crumbled in his hands as he pushed it aside. The interior was damp and smelled of moldering decay, laced with lavender. Closer he crept to the source of the sound, his heart pounding, all the while suspecting what he would find and at the same time afraid of it.

He rounded a corner and entered a dark room. Dim light filtered through holes in the roof, offering him enough light to make out shapes of broken furniture and earthenware. A vermin-eaten rug covered the floor in front of a filthy hearth. The sound of the woman was the strongest in this room and a feeling of deep melancholy settled over him as he stepped over the threshold. It was so strong that he felt his chest constrict in reaction. He closed his eyes to steel himself against the emotion and when he opened them, he saw her.

She sat on the rug, gently rocking back and forth. Her image was nothing like Holly's. She flickered as if she were a weak candle flame that would be guttered out by sudden movement. Tristan stood there, rooted to his spot, mere feet away from her. She did not seem to notice him. Her fair complexion was waxen, her golden hair eerily pale and glowing in the darkness of the room. Her features were familiar, but not so much that he could place her. The woman held a tightly wrapped bundle in her arms. She caressed the child's face with reverent hands. The ghost-woman kissed the babe and then her image flickered and she was gone.

The lullaby abruptly stopped.

The sense of melancholy deepened until it threatened to consume him.

"Why are you here?" a familiar voice asked from the darkest corner of the room. Holly had finally appeared, her ghostly figure glowing so brightly, like a beacon in the blackness and that made his eyes sting. Fingers of mist crept along the cold stone floor, wrapping themselves around his calves while dead leaves swirled over his boots. The intense sadness he'd been feeling faded slightly at her ethereal touch. Holly had never seemed more real to him than she did at that moment.

"What?" Tristan replied, having already forgotten the question, his voice sounding discordant even to his own ears.

"Leave now," she ordered, her voice firm. He had grown used to her smiles and welcoming eyes, but now she looked hard and sad and frightened. Before he knew what he was doing he had taken three steps toward her, startling himself at his desire to console her.

"Where have you been?" he found himself asking. Her features softened at the question and her eyes looked startled when the sounds of Lancelot's plundering inside the other rooms of the villa reached them. Lancelot was shouting things at him, from other rooms, as if Tristan cared if the kitchen was still in one piece or that the great room looked to be in the best shape.

"Take him and go! You've no desire to be at this place, trust me, I can feel how much you hate it here." This gave Tristan pause.

"Who lived here? Did you?" Holly's startled gaze shot to the door and she pressed herself closer to the wall, sinking into the solid stone as if it were a feather tick. Lancelot's heavy footfalls came ever closer down the corridor.

"Don't you disappear on me again!" he demanded. "Who was the woman with the babe?" he asked quickly, sensing their time was running short, as she had never appeared to him in the daytime before and he could feel her growing weaker by the second. Holly's eyes narrowed as she stared at him.

"How do you know of her?"

"I saw her just now!" he replied impatiently.

"You did?" she asked surprised. "Did you speak to her? Did she say anything to you?" Hope suffused her voice and her face transformed into wonder.

"No, she didn't even acknowledge me. She was singing to her babe." Holly's face crumpled at his words.

"My sister. You saw my sister Dara." Her eyes were sad as she said this but that was all he could get out of her before Lancelot came stomping into the room.

"What in the name of the Gods are you doing?" he asked as Tristan turned toward him. Tristan knew how it must have appeared to the other knight as he stared at him. Though how did one explain that he was in fact not talking to himself and staring at an empty corner of a room? He could tell by the look on Lancelot's face that he thought he was cracked. He turned back to Holly and she gave him a small wave before she sank completely into the wall, disappearing as she usually did.

Tristan choked back his frustration and rounded on Lancelot. "We're leaving now." The sharpness in his tone brooked no room for argument. Lancelot, completely unaware of the strange and otherworldly events that had happened this afternoon, looked at him strangely.

"Were you talking to yourself a moment ago?" Knowing any type of answer would lead to more questions than he was prepared to answer, Tristan said nothing. Instead he stalked back out of the servant's door, around the corner of the building. He mounted Skye and untied Malachi, hastily tossing the reins to Lancelot. He needed to find Holly again and he knew that dusk was hours away.

"You can find your way back, I trust?" he tossed over his shoulder as he steered Skye in the direction of his glen. Lancelot stood there staring at him, his dark brows drawn over his eyes in concern before he looked back at the villa.

"What were you doing in that room?"

"Talking to ghosts." Tristan replied honestly, and Lancelot snorted in disbelief at his answer. He rolled his eyes heavenward at Tristan as if he were making a huge concession to take him at his word.

"So you're saying the villa is possessed by spirits?" he asked, unable to hide a tinge of mirth in his voice.

"Yes. If you enjoy your sanity and the sanity of your bride, I'd think twice before I moved into it." Tristan nudged Skye into motion, leaving Lancelot standing at the dilapidated gateway of the villa, looking more baffled than he'd ever seen him before.

**AN: Sorry again for the LONG wait. I have good excuses this time I promise. I've started a new job while at the same time enrolled back into college, I already have a degree but two can't hurt right? ;)**

**While writing this chapter I found myself listening to La Roux a lot. Strange as it may seem, **_Armour Love _**sort of became Tristan and Holly's theme. It really is a beautiful song. Also **_Gnossiennes No. 1- Lent_** by Lang Lang- from the Painted Veil Soundtrack supplied the backdrop for this story. The music is good, the movie is even better although I would warn you to watch it with a box of tissues. **

**Until Chapter 7 where we meet up with Reagan, Lucan, and much more of Holly and Mab I promise! **

**Happy Reading **

**~S **


	7. Chapter 7

**I own nothing in this story that seems familar, but you know that already! Poor Holly and I wish it were otherwise. **

**Much bowing and scraping to the beta team for this one. You truly are the goddesses of editing. Thank you. **

**This chapter is dedicated to scratchtheplans , thank you for your kind review! *shameless plug here* If you haven't checked out her Tristan story "Your Tears Are Empty" you should give it a go, it's really well written! **

_"The leaves of memory seemed to make a mournful rustling in the dark." - **Henry Wadsworth Longfellow**_

Chapter 7

Tristan was unfamiliar with the sense of impatience that seemed to make his limbs restless and his thoughts jumbled as questions circled over and over again in his mind. He had already paced the length of the glen so many times that he had worn visible a path through the light snow. At intervals he would check the sky, noting the slow progression from day to dusk with an edginess that he found wholly irritating.

Where was she? Why did she not show herself? Tristan tucked his hands close to his body, his breath clouding in the cold air. A drawn-out sigh made a stream of white so thick that he stopped long enough to realize how idiotic he was being. Wrapping his over-tunic tighter about his body, he shuffled listlessly toward the edge of the glen.

The familiar sensation of bark scraping against his back as he slid against the tree trunk and into a sitting position centered his inner turmoil as he landed unceremoniously on ground.

The cold snow seeped into his breeches and he sniffed, rubbing his nose, chastising himself for his own foolishness, foolishness for waiting for a dead woman to appear. If Mâtar were here now she'd probably pat him on the cheek, eyes laughing, enjoying this rare show of annoyance.

Just as the dappled light of evening turned into the muted shades of dusk, Tristan felt a distinct shift in the air around him.

The faintest hint of lavender tickled his nose and he felt his lips curl in wry amusement. A thin tendril of mist slowly slithered its way toward him from the mound that was once the old poacher's hut. The mist seemed to gather in on itself, becoming solid as it progressed.

It was only moments later that Holly appeared seated at his left, a hairsbreadth between them. Her face was turned in profile and she seemed to be staring into the distance.

Tristan should have, by all rights, been startled by her sudden appearance but all he noted was the delicate curve of her jaw and the smoothness of her glowing skin in the darkness.

Many long moments passed before she finally spoke. Holly seemed as willing as he to avoid discussing their last encounter in the glen. She did, however, seem hesitant to start the conversation, which was unlike her. Holly turned to look at him, her face solemn; brushing a loose tendril of hair behind her ear, the sound of a dried leaf crunching between her fingers as she did so was as crisp as the snap of a ripe apple.

There seemed to be a thousand questions flashing behind those bright brown eyes but he knew he had the answers to none of them.

So Tristan decided to ask one of his own.

"Does the babe still live?" Holly's eyes flickered with pain so distinct in its intensity that it seemed to make her glow even brighter.

"I am not certain. She was stolen from us as an infant. I would like to think that I would have some knowledge of her passing as I have felt the death of every one of my kin since my own." Tristan nodded, realizing that she would indeed feel the severing of each of her blood ties to this earth.

Mâtar had once explained to him that the spirit lived on long after the physical body was gone, yet sometimes the only reason for the spirit to linger was their earthly ties. If the ties were severed the spirit had no true reason fore existing. They would then choose to move on or remain.

In Holly's case she had chosen the latter, though why she had chosen so remained a mystery to him.

"She? The babe was a girl?" Tristan asked.

"Yes, her name was Enid and she as dearly loved," Holly answered with a sad smile. Her eyes blinked slowly but not before he noticed the sheen of tears. Her show of emotion sometimes caught Tristan unawares. She might have been dead but her emotions were clearly something very much alive.

"Who stole her?" It was the next logical question he could ask without focusing overmuch on her haunted expression.

"Her father."

Holly sighed at his imploring look. She would have to explain it all for him to understand her particular plight. As painful as the memories obviously were for her, Tristan felt that he needed to understand what brought her to him. Why else was he here with her now discussing something that had happened decades ago?

"Why would a father steal his own child?"

"Because his wife had cuckolded him openly, numerous times, and they hated each other. Enid was the only good thing between them. My sister Dara loved her more than life itself and Thaddeus knew this. He had long since abandoned us to the wilds of Brittan unprotected and penniless in order to return to Rome, but not before he hired someone to steal his daughter right from under our noses." Holly paused, her eyes focusing on some point in the darkness but not really seeing.

"Thaddeus' true love was power, and he could wield it over both my sister and I while he remained in possession of Enid. We tried everything we could with our limited resources to locate her and each time we failed, Dara retreated into herself further. I watched as my beautiful sister languished in her grief until she died. There was nothing I could do; our parents were dead and I had no power against Thaddeus and his allies in Rome. I was a poor, unprotected woman destined always for the nunnery." Holly gave him a smile that told him she had been anything but something to pity.

"Can you imagine me a nun?" Her incredulous tone made him smile despite himself.

Holly sighed, taking note of his expression before she continued, "My sister and I were always a pair to be reckoned with. I was the eldest, though Dara was the beauty. When it was put to Thaddeus that he would marry one of us my father didn't even make mention of me. My plain looks and shrewish temper would not make the great Thaddeus a good wife. Dara was betrothed to him at twelve and married at fifteen. Never mind that she had run away several times in between with her lover Thomas, a boy we had known since childhood.

"My father wanted this marriage. It was advantageous. Thaddeus was powerful, in the good graces of the pope and my father had long since lost favor with the Holy Father when he married my mother." There was a disdainful note in her voice that Tristan detected though she hadn't put much inflection into the words.

Holly was quiet for a moment and Tristan used the silence to mull over what she had told him so far.

It seemed that she wanted him to know her story and at the same time she was reluctant to tell him everything.

He picked up an oak leaf that had tumbled against his leg. He idly twirled the stem and watched as the leaf spun in the darkness while waiting for her to gather her words and tell him more.

"After Dara died, it took Thaddeus a little more than a month to return to Brittan. By that time I had managed to sell or trade most of the valuables left to me to pay our debts. I had no servants, save for a maid who refused to leave me. I was intelligent enough to hide a few of my own precious keepsakes; jewels that had belonged to my mother and sister. I had planned on hiring someone to escort me to Rome to start my search for Enid with the coin the gold might fetch me." Holly's bitter smile made Tristan's gut clench with a sense of foreboding as to where her tale was leading.

"One evening, Thaddeus barged into the manor as if he had never left it. He took one look at me in my worn gown standing in the empty parlor and laughed. He laughed at my poverty, laughed at my sense of foolish pride, laughed because he knew I had nowhere to go and that he now had full reign over me. He knew that if he so chose, he could do whatever he wanted with me and no one would stop him." She stopped, took a breath, and turned to look at him, her eyes shining brightly.

"In a desperate effort to get some sort of information from him I confronted him about Enid. He was unmoved by my pleas and told me that I would never find her no matter how hard or how far I looked. " There was a strong will about this woman and Tristan suspected that she must have been a creature to be reckoned with.

"After he refused to tell me anything about Enid, he informed me that he would return on the morrow and I had best have myself removed from the villa. He cared not where I sought shelter, only that I could not live in his house any longer. The next day he tried to force me out several times, but I always found my way back in. He was hardly at home and I knew all of the secrets of the villa and its various passages. I had often helped Dara escape to her lover, Thomas, and knew the trails well." Again Holly smiled and Tristan was tempted to smile back, though he did not.

"This careless game I played carried on for the better part of a fortnight. During the day I would spend my time in neighboring villages looking for work, trying to learn anything I could of the true reasons for Thaddeus' return; fully aware that the empty villa left to him by my father was of little value. As time wore on and the altercations between Thaddeus and I became more frequent and increasingly strained, it was no wonder he did what he did that night."

"Was he the one that hovered over you as you died?" Tristan found himself asking, watching carefully as her expression instantly changed from a mild sort of resignation, as she sat deep in thought, to startled surprise at his question.

There was a small hint of fear behind her eyes, and he could see how badly she wanted to deny it. Holly shifted away from him, drawing her skirts tighter against her folded legs as if she could still protect herself from the ugly memory.

"I didn't see the blade until it was too late," she replied weakly, her hands brushing reflexively against her chest and Tristan watched in macabre fascination as a dark spot appeared directly over her breasts. The black stain crept along the ghostly fabric of her bodice as if she had just been freshly stabbed. A bitter wind swept through the glen, pushing his hair away from his face and Holly turned to look at him.

"The pain was…startling," her words floated toward him and hung in the air between them like an afterthought. "Even after he stabbed me I somehow found the strength to run. I don't know where it came from, I only knew I needed to get away. He chased me through this glen, but I was bleeding so much that I don't think I could have ever out run him. I managed to lose him in the trees. I ran blindly for what seemed like forever, fear fueling me. I don't remember falling down; I only remember staring up at a canopy of leaves, my limbs heavy." Tristan nodded, he remembered the stark images of her death from his dreams, knew her burning sense of fear as she took her last breaths.

"Thaddeus wept over your body, why?" Holly blinked at his question before she gave him an assessing glance, realizing he had witnessed more of her death than he had originally led her to believe. She gave him a delicate shrug and turned more fully toward him.

The wind had died down as it usually did when she was in a calmer mood. He watched with a wary eye as she scooted even closer to him on the forest floor, her movements disturbing nothing on the ground and making the scene even more surreal.

The black stain on her dress slowly began to fade and Tristan had to tear his gaze away. He was fully aware that he had been staring at her chest this entire time. Had she been alive he would have earned himself a stiff slap across the face. "He was relieved I suppose. Maybe he even felt regret. Even as I was dying, I knew it was never his intention to kill me. His only goal was to keep me from never finding Enid. I think his attack on me was an attempt to keep me from finding her."

"But you did find her, didn't you? That's why he killed you; to keep you from reclaiming her," Tristan queried and was satisfied when she nodded.

"I had found out through a series of strange events where she was being kept and it wasn't in Rome. My maid had had Thaddeus followed, knowing how much I longed to be reunited with my niece. She reported that Enid was safe and being raised by a crofter and his family in a northern village that was about a day's ride away. I had made arrangements to borrow a horse and had a direction and description of the village. I had planned that evening to start my journey. Thaddeus had come home found me in my traveling clothes and guessed."

"Did you intend to get Enid back?"

"Yes."

"The family she was with would never have given her to you." Holly looked affronted at his matter of fact statement.

"How do you know that?" Tristan heard the doubt in her tone.

"Because her father was obviously paying them to keep her. You were her aunt and a poor relation at best. How could you have cared for her?" Holly frowned at him, the expression causing a crease to form above her nose.

"I would have done anything for her. She was my only family and belonged with me, not her useless, power-drunk father who gave her to _farmers._" Her nose wrinkled in distaste, and for the first time her true Roman heritage shined through. Holly, Tristan thought wryly, was a snob.

"So you died believing that you were going to rescue Enid from being raised on a farm?" When she didn't answer, Tristan knew she would always believe she had been in the right.

He had no intentions of delving into someone else's family squabbles. The child belonged with her father, there was no disputing that fact, no matter that this woman had died believing otherwise.

"When you state it like that it sounds idiotic." The thin veil of sarcasm in her voice did not go unnoticed. Her lips quirked mirroring his own expression and he shook his head at her ruefully.

"Why are you here, Holly?" The seriousness of the question seemed to bring them both back to the present situation; the fact that she was dead and he was able to communicate with her.

She mulled over her answer for some time and it gave him ample opportunity to study her. Tristan had always been reluctant to really look at her but now something about her seemed different.

She seemed more solid, more _real_ if that were possible.

Holly turned to look at him and for a moment they stared at each other. For a brief instant, Tristan saw her as she once was; inky hair, dark eyes and pale skin, a woman who knew the bitter acidic taste of loneliness and craved something else.

"From the first day I had awoken into… this, I believed I remained for Enid. Only now am I beginning to doubt that." He waited for her to explain herself.

Holly looked at him strangely and when he realized that there would be no explanation forthcoming Tristan became increasingly uncomfortable under her gaze.

He shifted to his feet stiffly. The cold had settled into his bones and he only now just noticed how frigid the temperature was this night.

"Are you going to leave now?" she asked, her words oddly quiet in the darkness.

"It's late," was the only thing he could think of to say.

"The late hour never stopped you before. You've come to me in the early dawn once." Tristan shifted on his feet, gathering his over tunic and furs closer to his body and keenly aware of the way her face was upturned, her pale skin glowing brightly.

"Would you stay if I asked you to?"

"No," he replied, though he was surprised that a part of him had wanted to say yes. Tristan found the fortitude to walk to the edge of the glen, his mind abuzz with everything he had learned this night.

There were many things left unsaid and the mystery of Holly was far from being solved.

"Good night, Sir Tristan," he heard her call from her place where he'd left her.

"Good night Lady Holly," he replied quietly as he walked back through the thick trees.

* * *

Reagan sat at a small table in the healing rooms that had a good view of the storage cupboard. Parchment and charcoal pencil in hand, she did a quick visual of the stock she could see from her seat as she absently hummed to herself and tapped her foot to the jaunty rhythm in her head.

Dagonet was rummaging behind her, tending to a villager who had managed to step on the wrong end of an abandoned rake. The poor man's pained gasps could be heard from where he was sitting in the other room.

Reagan tried desperately to concentrate on her task but memories of the previous night and the wicked things her husband had done to her kept surfacing. Blushing rather brightly at one vivid memory, she was convinced that her face would set the parchment aflame were she not careful.

Reagan idly tapped the end of the pencil against the table top, wondering if Lancelot would prefer to take their evening meal in their quarters tonight instead of with the king as planned. Reagan doubted she could dissuade him from his duty, but, she thought with a sly grin, it was worth a try.

Her idle reverie was short-lived, however, as a commotion arose in the main healing rooms. She heard a deep rumble, most likely Dagonet protesting at being interrupted. Another deep voice replied, this one familiar in its abruptness. Reagan leaned back in her chair and peered around the edge of the door to get a better look.

A mistake, as she almost toppled over when Tristan rounded the corner, his arms full of scrolls and parchments tied with thin leather straps.

He dumped them on to her desk without a care for what had been there in the first place. Reagan's chair legs slammed down on the floor abruptly, her knees jarring the top of the desk. She grimaced and rubbed her bruised legs while Tristan stared down at her, arms folded across his chest and looking as forbidding as ever.

"Hello," Reagan said for a lack of anything better to say. She had not seen Tristan for weeks and his sudden appearance here in the healing rooms of all places was startling to say the least.

"Read those to me." Reagan blinked at him in undisguised surprise before looking at the haphazard pile of old parchment on the table. He didn't really ask her so much as order her, and the subtle arch of her eyebrow wasn't enough to get him to elaborate on his request.

"Where did all of these come from?" she managed to ask as she picked up a particularly brittle scroll.

"Arthur."

"Arthur just gave them to you?" Reagan asked dubiously. Tristan did not reply, instead he reached for the abandoned stool in the corner and dragged it roughly against the planked floor before sitting down. He motioned to the pile with a careless wave and Reagan shrugged. She reached up to push a piece of hair out of her eyes, idly wondering if she had time to get it trimmed before dinner with the king, as it was getting longer than she usually preferred.

Tristan gave her a sardonic look; it was almost as if he knew her mind was wandering today. She sniffed primly at him and dropped the scroll as if it were a hot rock.

"I have work to do, my lord." He made a strange noise and rubbed his nose. Reagan suspected he was hiding a grin.

"Reading is work," Tristan said. They stared each other down for a moment, and she reluctantly conceded defeat. Her curiosity over the scrolls proved to be too much.

"If Arthur gave them to you, couldn't you have asked him to read them as well?" The scout's eyes shifted from hers for a moment and Reagan understood that he hadn't exactly asked for these missives. With both eyebrows raised at his non- answer, Reagan reached for the first piece of leather and uncurled the scroll.

She was immediately presented with birth, death, and marriage records; for a moment she had trouble distinguishing the Latin, as the words were faded and the parchment old. Reagan glanced up from the scrolls and back at Tristan.

"What interest have you in deeds, deaths and marriages from almost 50 years past?"

"_Much_ interest." He waved her on and Reagan scanned each scroll again. They were extremely poorly kept, even by Roman standards, and a majority were missing dates. He watched silently as she took her time organizing them by what information was pertained in them and by age, laying them out on the table and the floor.

"I need you to look for a particular name: Thaddeus." Reagan turned to look at him from her spot crouched on the floor.

"A Thaddeus of what?" she asked, hoping that this person Tristan wanted her to find had a unique nomen. But Tristan just shrugged his shoulders and said no more. Reagan took her time scanning each one until her eyes fell upon the name he sought. She was stunned to find that this person was still alive.

"This Thaddeus you seek, he is presumably still alive as his name is not on this list of the dead. It is, however, listed with another family name. A family called Aelianus. He married their daughter Dara." Reagan shifted to find the correct list, pivoting in a semi-circle to point to the exact name. "Strange that she married him _sine manu_. She remained legally tied to her family, not to her husband."

"That doesn't surprise me." Reagan regarded him quizzically.

Did he already know of these people he was asking her to read about? And if so, how would a taciturn scout who couldn't read have knowledge of a Roman and British family from almost fifty years ago?

"Thaddeus, what was his profession?" Reagan shrugged, and continued to search; usually a name would give some clue as to what that person did.

"I don't know. All I can find is that he was wealthy, so one can assume that he had power as well." She watched him carefully, but was unsatisfied as it seemed the scout had known this already as well. But given his interest in the documents, Reagan knew that there was some vital piece of the puzzle missing.

"I could write to this Thaddeus for you if you wish," she asked hesitantly. Something strange flashed behind his eyes and his countenance suddenly frightened her.

Standing and brushing at her skirts with nervous hands, she wanted to laugh at herself. It had been a good long while since Tristan had made her nervous.

"Don't bother. He'll be arriving at the fort within weeks, I suspect." Tristan's tone was quiet and had a lethal edge to it that surprised her.

"How do you know that?" There was no hiding the surprise in her voice.

"I just do." Tristan stood then; it was startling to Reagan, sometimes, the fluid, graceful way he moved. She watched as he made short work of the scrolls and parchments littered about the floor in the backroom.

"Is there anything else you'd like me to find for you?" she asked as he scooped up the discarded papers. Tristan shook his head at her; a tangled fall of dark hair covered his eyes, obscuring his expression for a moment.

"No. It's already found me." And in his usual manor he ambled from the room, leaving the ambiguous statement hanging in the air as heavy and dark as an unseen presence.

Reagan picked up her charcoal pencil and tried and failed to return to her task. It was impossible to ignore the chills of portent running up and down her spine.

She was not wrong to dread the arrival of the mysterious Thaddeus Tristan was so curious about. She hoped that the scout was wrong and the man never made his way to Hadrian's Wall, for if he did Reagan was sure there would be hell to pay.

**AN: _Exposition, exposition, exposition_ *sigh* Glad that's over! **

**So sorry again for the wait for this chapter. I wanted to get it to where I was comfortable with it before I even showed it to a beta. Can you believe it took over a month? **

**You won't have to wait that long for Chapter 8, as that is already finished. Chapter 9 is outlined and I should be able to start that this week. **

**I want to take the time to thank everyone who read/reviewed/alerted the last chapter. If I didn't get back to you I apologize!**


	8. Chapter 8

**I own nothing in this story that seems familar, but you know that already! Poor Holly and I wish it were otherwise. **

**Thank you Betas! You are awesome :) Any mistakes within the text are completely my own.**

**This chapter earns it's 'M' rating for a bit of the "sexy". You have been warned. **

_"The Nightmare life-in-death was she_." - **Samuel Taylor **

Chapter 8

He was exploring the glen again just as he had when he'd been a boy of thirteen. A thick, long knotted stick acted as his walking staff. He poked it in various soft places in the ground, around a lump of debris, inspecting the dirt. The heat of the sun beat down on his skin, warming him; the long grass crunched under his feet and the birdsong in the trees was melodic, filling him with a rare sense of peace.

_Tristan_, a voice intoned in his head. There was something familiar about that voice, he thought to himself, something enticing.

_Tristan, _it came again with the same inflection. He turned towards the sound, lured by the promise of pleasure he heard in it.

Had anyone called to him in such a way before? No, his mind told him. Never. He could see someone between the trees, a shadow, a shape.

He found himself moving toward it as if his feet knew what to do but his mind did not.

_Tristan_, the voice was insistent this time: impatient, almost. He followed the figure as it remained just out of his line of vision, darting quickly between thick tree trunks and ferns, leading him on a merry chase. Finally, he stopped at the embankment of the pond, his booted feet sinking into the soft sand. Something about this chase was eerily familiar but for some reason he could not recall why.

There she stood, the sun glinting off her black hair and pale skin making her resemble a spark. She smiled warmly at him and lifted one hand in greeting. He watched spellbound as she opened her fist one finger at a time and dried, dead leaves tumbled from it, dancing on the breeze. She left her hand there, hovering in invitation.

Slowly Tristan approached her and drank her in with a curious gaze. The simple gray gown she wore was thin and he could easily make out the shape of her body beneath.

He reached out carefully and ran the back of his fingers against the warm skin of her cheek.

"How is this possible?" he whispered, and Holly stared up at him, her dark eyes shining. He stood so close to her he could feel the warmth and strength of her body, smell the hint of lavender her hair carried. She reached for his hand and guided it to her chest. He could feel the steady thump of her heart beneath his palm and he felt his features twist in confusion.

"I've been waiting, waiting, waiting…" She replied. Her words seemed odd as they fell from her lips. As if he was acting not of his own will, he watched as his hand traveled further down her chest, curving around the shape of her breast beneath her dress. He could feel the hard point of her nipple beneath the fabric as he ran his thumb across it.

He watched as Holly closed her eyes in pleasure. His own body responded in kind and arousal filled him, thick and hot and unexpected.

He bent towards her, breathing in her sweet scent and lightly brushed his lips against hers once, twice, but the third time became deeper, more demanding, and she opened for him with a sigh of pleasure. He felt her impossibly soft hands on his waist, slipping down the front of his breeches, caressing him, cupping him, then around to clutch at his buttocks, her nails scoring his skin and drawing him ever closer to her.

His hands kneaded her breasts and she arched against him in wild abandon, tangling her fingers in his long hair, shaping her hands around the back of his head to hold him in place. Tristan rocked against her, his arousal so powerful that it startled him, but he could not seem to break away from her.

It was then that his sense of her body shifted. Alarmed, he tried to pull away but her hold on him was fierce. With an unyielding sense of wrongness Tristan felt his right hand sink slowly into the flesh of Holly's chest.

A strangled sound of horror escaped him as he watched his hand disappear and slick warmth crawled up his forearm. He heard her pained gasp, watched helplessly as blood trickled from the corner of her mouth and stained her lips.

With a great yell he pulled his hand free and with it came a red solid mass.

Holly's chest gaped open. The hole he'd inadvertently created was black and empty, and blood seeped into the bodice of her dress.

Her pale face swam before his vision and she clutched at his forearms futilely.

"_You are mine_," she gasped before collapsing at his feet.

Tristan could do nothing but stare at the thing in his blood-covered palm. He watched as it slowly beat once, twice, three times.

The sound it made was earsplitting and it reverberated throughout the forest, shook the leaves from the trees and made the birds take to the sky in fright.

He could not tear his horrified gaze away from the pulsing thing in his palm. He wanted to drop it, but he could not move. He wanted to yell but no sound came forth.

With a swiftness that was terrifying, the heart stopped beating and there was nothing surrounding him but a cold and empty silence.

Nothing.

* * *

Tristan shot upright in bed, covered in sweat, the bedclothes tangled around his naked form. Breathing heavily, he dug his palms into his eyes as in an attempt to erase the visions. The sound of Holly's heartbeat thundered in his ears and for a second Tristan had a difficult time distinguishing dream from reality.

Throwing off the coverings in frustration, he shoved his clothes on, he stalked from his chambers. The biting cold of the corridor was a welcome respite from the lingering visions of his nightmare.

He pushed his way into the tavern, wryly noting that there were few patrons about at this early hour. A serving girl cautiously placed a tankard in front of him and filled it with ale.

He grabbed it and downed the contents swiftly, relishing the warmth as it hit his stomach. The serving girl mumbled something about food and he barked at her to speak up. She squeaked in alarm and Tristan felt himself forcefully rein in his temper.

He was not one to snap at serving wenches. That was Gawain.

He excused the girl with a dismissive wave of his hand and she quickly scampered off in the other direction.

He was studying the wood grain of the table, images from his nightmare swirling in his memory, when a small satchel was tossed in front of him, interrupting his brooding.

The familiar light scuff of Dagonet's boots against the floor of the tavern made Tristan bite back a sigh.

"I don't need your powders," the scout said, pushing the satchel back toward the healer.

"You're not sleeping and as a result you're starting to vex me." Dagonet pushed the bag back at him and Tristan felt his ire rise.

"Take your mollycoddling elsewhere." Tristan pushed himself to his feet, wanting nothing more than to escape Dagonet's worried gaze.

There were other people in the fort that he could direct his concern towards, Tristan did not deserve the unwanted attention.

"There is something haunting you Tris. I know it." Tristan stopped in his tracks. He turned sharply, pinning Dagonet with narrowed eyes.

Strange that he should use that particular phrase.

"You know nothing."

"You've changed since that night I pulled you from the pond. What…" Dagonet hesitated "What happened? Does it have something to do with Reagan?" Tristan was genuinely taken aback at this.

Did everyone know about his once passing interest in Reagan? By the gods she was Lancelot's wife for a reason. Tristan refused to answer the question, his mouth tightening sourly.

"She's happy, you must accept this." Tristan was unable to smother an incredulous snort of disdain and he waved Dagonet's foolish notions away.

If his problems were something as asinine and simple as his unrequited feelings for another man's wife, he would have taken Reagan long ago and proved he was the better man. Dagonet's vexed expression grated on him: there was nothing for the healer to be anxious over.

Nothing except for the fact that Tristan's latent blood legacy had finally made itself apparent just as his mad mother had predicted years ago, and now he was having erotic and highly disturbing dreams about a dead woman.

A dead woman who at this moment was waiting for him to return to her, he could feel it.

What would Dagonet say if he told him about Holly? Would he go to Arthur? What would he do if Tristan told him he had had strange encounters with the hermit woman Mab, encounters that had disturbed him beyond reason? Dagonet's worried expression did not change in the course of Tristan's internal musings, if anything it had intensified.

Tristan walked back to where the small cloth pouch sat on the table and picked it up. He tucked it into his tunic pocket, gave his brother-in-arms a meaningful look and walked away from the tavern.

Away from Dagonet's bloody unwanted concern.

* * *

Holly drummed her fingers on her bent knees as she sat on a fallen log that was rotting and soft in places. If she had been more solid, she was positive she would have sunk into the soft flesh of the trunk. As it was she floated inches above it, barely disturbing the rotten shell.

Holly stared at the man before her, watching with gruesome fascination as he deftly skinned a hare, and then fastened it to a makeshift spit over a flame. She had wanted to instruct him where the driest bracken was when he first built the fire but he already seemed to know. Holly found herself following him to and fro as he stalked the glen; it was starting to make her angry that he did not acknowledge her at all.

She was tempted to play with him and douse his fire. She could easily do it just by blowing the newly fallen snow onto the flame, but to court Tristan's wrath yet again was something she was not willing to do. Holly had worked too hard to build the thin thread of trust that she had with him. Besides, she was a selfish creature and she was not willing to give up her only company, silent and brooding as said company might be at present.

Holly watched as he spun the hare over the flame; slowly the meat turned from pink and raw to golden and crispy and she wished she had retained her sense of smell. She used to love food when she was alive, loved the different tastes and textures on her tongue. Sitting down to a long meal with her family had been one of her favorite pleasures. She missed meals, she missed wine, and she missed dancing. Most of all she missed the feel of a warm fire on her cold skin after a winter's walk.

Holly watched as he tested the meat, mumbling to himself he ripped off some then shoved it in his mouth. Tristan chewed in that awkward way people do when the food they are eating is burning their mouths but they are too hungry to care. Holly wondered at his voraciousness.

"Don't they have food back that that fort you hail from? Surely they could feed you there?" His eye twitched at her words. She smiled triumphantly. She'd finally earned herself an eye twitch from the man. She drifted closer, cautiously, her eyes on the knight, and his eyes on the meat, on the ground, anywhere but her. Holly knew it was purposely done. Holly let loose a long dramatic sigh, then flipped on her side, floating a few inches off the ground.

Her hair trailed across her shoulder and the wind blew a couple of dead oak leaves toward him. One landed on the roasting hare. Tristan gingerly picked it off as if it were a dead rat and continued shoving the food into his mouth. The man had the manners of a barbarian. He looked the part as well, so Holly had to admit the comparison was fitting.

She wondered what he really looked like under all that matted hair and scruffy beard. The Roman men she had been raised around were polished and well-kept, and this man was anything but. She found him fascinating.

"Do you have a woman, Sir Tristan?" Her question made him pause. For the first time that night he looked at her. She smiled brightly and waggled her fingers at him.

Tristan ignored her while he once again began to eat. Holly deftly switched positions so that she was sitting cross-legged across the fire from him, still floating.

"No wife to trim your hair, cook your meals, warm your bed?" She already knew the answer but she also sensed that there was something holding him back and she wanted to know more. Holly wanted to know _him_.

"Would you leave me alone if I did?" he asked, throwing the bones of the rabbit into the flames. The fire hissed and spluttered but the flame remained strong.

"No." She grinned. He had not actually answered her question and for some reason she hadn't expected him to.

"Is the meat good?" Holly asked, for she was genuinely curious. It had been ages since she had thought of something as enticing as food. He nodded but made no move to offer her some as would be the proper thing to do. Never mind that she couldn't eat.

Holly continued her observations of her companion, watching fondly as he tossed some of the scraps of meat in Fionn's direction. The great bird would swoop down from her perch and gobble up the morsels almost as quickly as her master was throwing them.

Once he was done eating he wiped his hands on his breeches, leaving a smear of grease on the fabric. Holly felt her features twist in momentary disgust, convinced that her earlier assessment of him had been correct: Barbarian.

This brought her attention to the black marks under his eyes. Feeling her scrutiny, he glared back at her, daring her to ask a question.

"Did it hurt?" He paused in his ruminations to look at her.

"Did what hurt?"

Holly brushed her fingers under her eyes, "Your marks."

"Yes, they did." He replied gruffly.

"How old were you?" Tristan shrugged as if he couldn't recall and Holly knew he was reluctant to tell her anything, no matter how much she burned to know. He wiped the back of his hand against his mouth and her eyes followed, her attention changing to a different part of him.

He had a nice mouth, for a barbarian, she conceded. Then she wondered how many women he had kissed with those lips. Did they enjoy it? Was it pleasurable to be kissed by him while his beard scratched their soft skin? She had no doubt that women lusted after his powerful form, and she wondered if he took advantage of that, as any flesh and blood man would.

"You're staring, ghost."

Holly blinked and realized that she was indeed staring so intently that she was leaning half over the blazing fire. Had she been a mortal woman she could have tumbled directly into the fire and, at that moment, not cared one whit. Lust, she thought wryly, was a strange and consuming emotion. It turned scholars into fools and maids into whores.

She had never openly desired after men when she was alive, and to be aware so consciously of a man now seemed wrong somehow.

She had long ago accepted that she would never know the physical pleasures between a man and a woman. And if she were not a spirit who had forced her company upon him, she doubted very seriously that he would pay her any attention at all. He did not seem like the type of man who enjoyed the same things she did. He would need someone strong, yet soft, someone who could tolerate his bouts of silence and take no offence in them. The thought of him with such a woman made something in her shift uncomfortably.

Holly willfully pushed those thoughts aside. She felt a frown crease her forehead and reflexively rubbed the spot less she get a permanent mark. Holly felt herself smile at the old habit.

"Why do you spend so much time alone?" She blurted the question before she even had a chance to really think about the words. Holly had always sensed an inherent loneliness in him but since they had truly become acquainted it seemed stronger in him. He tilted his head studying her. Tristan's eyes gleamed strangely in the firelight and for a moment she wondered if her questions were impolite.

"I have always been apart. Even before these marked me." He motioned to the black symbols on his cheeks and continued to pin her with that steady unwavering gaze. Holly felt a tremor go through her at the look, whether it was from fear or anticipation she did not know.

"You waste the gift you are given. You hide from life the way I hide from death. We're both caught in the middle. Perhaps that is why we are here together now."

"We are not _together_," he replied with particular emphasis on the last word. If Holly could still blush she was positive her cheeks would be a bright red. Her skin remained in that unearthly pallor that she knew was incredibly unflattering even for a ghost.

"That's not what I meant. I mean, here as companions… I mean…" She stumbled along, trying to explain herself and finding she became more and more tongue-tied. She shook her head in frustration. "I don't understand you, Knight. When I was alive, my family was my whole life. I loved them greatly. I can't understand why you hide yourself in these woods, in the cold, in the dark, when the pleasures of a wife, a home, a family could be yours if only you found the courage to seek them. You live, yet you do not."

"You don't _live _at all," Tristan said in a tone as conversational as if he were stating that the sky was blue. Holly sensed the hidden meaning behind the words. His annoyance was so clear she could practically feel it, but she could sense the confusion threaded with curiosity that he was so desperately trying to conceal.

Holly felt a slight sense of guilt, that she should at least warn him that she could easily read his emotions to level the playing field between them, but she liked having at least this one small secret. It gave her the upper hand she needed to get closer to him, at least as close as he would allow her.

"Yes, you are correct," she nodded her agreement, hoping she sounded humbled. "I am dead, yet I am more alive than you at present. Don't you find that alarming?"

He shrugged again and Holly wanted to get up and shake him, slap him, anything to get Tristan to show a true reaction.

"Should anything you say alarm me? You are a ghost. You could be a figment of my demented brain for all I know," Tristan replied before cupping some snow in his hands and tossing it on the fire, immediately extinguishing it.

Holly blinked at him and shifted away on instinct. He had no power to physically harm her but he could still wound her with his harsh words. She pushed her fragile feelings aside and looked at him through narrowed eyes.

"Is that how you see yourself?" she asked quietly, daring to creep closer to him. "As demented, insane?" She couldn't help the prodding, but something about his last statement bothered her greatly.

He flashed her a look so raw and full of misery that she realized that he did believe himself to be mad. He blinked and scratched his nose, and the look, just like everything that had come before it, slid behind the impartial mask that he hid behind so well.

"You are not insane. You are gifted. My mother's people held one such as you in high regard."

"One such as me?"

"Yes, messengers between two worlds. You have the power to bring the dead back to the living." At those words something inside him snapped. Tristan turned on her. The full force if his anger was a startling thing to behold.

"Is that what you want from me?" She reared back at the question. Menace hung on his every word and Holly felt her eyes go wide. She had never intended to anger him so. She was attempting conversation, not accusing him of a crime. She shook her head vehemently, holding her hands up in front of her in an instinctual pose of surrender.

"No! No! That is not what I meant! I have accepted my death, such as it was. " She tried to sound apologetic and feared that it came out as patronizing. Tristan obviously took offence.

"That way lays true madness. I have seen it, and I will never do it. Do you understand?" Holly found herself nodding ardently. There was something in his eyes that tugged at her and made her insides twist.

"Never," he added under his breath heatedly. This was not something that he wanted to discuss. Holly could sense that she'd tapped upon something inside him that was volatile, but was confused by his ardent rejection. Gifts like his were blood rights. He had inherited a gift of sight, but he obviously viewed it as a curse rather than a blessing. Unless his blessing had come late in life, whoever raised him had done a poor job of preparing him for what he was to expect.

Holly knew very little of the messengers that her mother spoke of. But the tales she spun of the powerful Druid priests that could see spirits and even raise the dead had frightened and tantalized Holly as a child. She and Dara would cling to each other in the night whispering, recounting the stories and adding spooky twists of their own.

They had been tales then, and she and her sister children who found such things amusing diversions. Holly had always held the faint hope that the messengers did exist, though truth told to be told, the reality of a true messenger never crossed her mind. It had been a child's fantasy. Now she was confronted with one, realizing and seeing him for what he truly was. Holly had been drawn to Tristan since he'd been a gangly lad in strange clothes.

Despite his refusal to acknowledge their solidarity, Holly knew that they were here _together _for a reason.

"I mean no offence, knight," she said softly, hoping to soothe him. His temper, when he did show it, was a startling thing to behold. God help the man who suffered this knight's true wrath. "I would never ask anything of you that you would not wish to do." She swallowed with difficulty.

She hoped that her sincerity showed in her words. She wanted to show him that he did not frighten her. That he would never frighten her. But at the same time she felt that for some time now she had been fighting a losing battle.

"We shall never speak of this again." His hand cut through the air as if the motion alone could slice the head off the proverbial beast that sat between them. She knew he wanted her word and Holly gave it, albeit reluctantly. She knew that this would not be the last they spoke of it, no matter how much he wished to avoid it. A tense silence fell between them, their conversation still lingering in the air like agitated sparks from a fire.

"Whatever you may believe, you are not mad," she said quietly. Holly watched as he stood before her, wary as a wolf whose leg had been snared in a hunter's trap. He seemed torn between leaving her and hearing what she had to say. Holly half expected him to bolt.

"We are here to help each other. I do not know the purpose of our accord, I only know it exists and I want to…to know you better." She felt her throat tighten as she awaited his response.

He studied her through gleaming, narrowed eyes for a moment. His head turned at a slight angle, braids and tangled hair falling into his face. The sharp planes of his cheek bones and the set of his jaw told her he was sizing up the validity of her offering. His countenance remained impassive but she knew he was striving very hard to hide what he was feeling.

Just as soon as it had come, the moment between them was lost. He nodded at her in a brisk way, a single jerk of his chin that made her blink in disbelief. She watched, confounded, as he packed up his things and took care of the fire.

So that was it then? She thought. He would be leaving now as he always did and she could not follow.

"Will you be back on the morrow?" she asked, hoping he didn't notice the tiny pleading note in her voice. Damn the man for making her crave his reticent and prickly company.

"Yes," he replied gruffly, before he touched his fingers to his brow in a parting gesture.

Holly smiled as she watched his retreating back. For the first time in a long time she finally had something to look forward to. The sharp edge of loneliness still stung at his departure, but she was sure in time that it would dull to the low familiar ache that she would somehow bear for another eternity.

**AN: And there is Chapter 8. I can't help myself when I'm writing them, they just love to circle one another it can get frustrating at times, trust me. **

**Chapter 9 is finished! It's a long one and we get to see a whole slew of knights and some new characters. The story is really going to pick up after this one. I have outlined 23 chapters including an epilogue so we're almost half way there. Chapter 10 has also been started and the plot thickens, Mab makes her return and she's as scary as ever. I got chills writing her... **

**Thank you to everyone who read/reviewed/alerted chapter 7! Honestly you help make writing this story so much fun. As I stated on my profile page, I am working constantly to get you quality updates at least once a month. Real life can get in the way but it hasn't sidetracked me for too long. **


	9. Chapter 9

**I own nothing in this story that seems familar, but you know that already! Poor Holly and I wish it were otherwise. **

**My Betas are the best. Honestly, I don't know what I would do without them. Any mistakes within the text are completely my own.**

**This chapter is for Girl in The Library Corner. Your questions are answered within :) **

**Also, Hazelelf I'm so glad you're back! **

_"And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything"_**. - William Shakespeare**

Chapter 9

"_What are you doing_?" a familiar voice whispered very close to his ear. Tristan's senses sparked in awareness. He was crouched behind thick forest brush, his gaze riveted to where he had spotted a large stag only moments earlier. His bow was strung and at the ready, his body tense with anticipation, but Holly's interruption had made him lose his concentration for a split second.

The arrow went sailing into the murky light of the forest and he spat out a violent curse.

"Such language, knight!" Holly scolded and he heard the smile in her voice.

"Go away," he snapped, before he turned to look at her crouched next to him, mirroring his own posture. Her feet didn't touch the ground and she floated a few inches above it, making her level with him.

"Unless you can fetch that arrow, you're nothing but a distraction. _Leave._" Holly tisked. The sound grated on his nerves and made his eye twitch in reaction. Tristan fought the urge to slap a hand over his eye.

"Your handsome stag is now about thirty meters to the west. Your hunting companion should have him in his sights by now." Realizing that she was right, he was torn by his aggravation at her interruption and wondering if Galahad had enough stones to actually shoot the stag and not just stare at it.

"He wouldn't be thirty meters away by now if you hadn't interrupted me," he grumbled sourly as he stood stretching the muscles in his back, watching as she gave him a delicate shrug. Holly glowed with particular delight this morning and he wondered if she knew something that he didn't.

"And where would the thrill of the hunt be in that? I can't make everything easy for you, scout."

She quirked her lips in a smile. Tristan stood there, riveted by her playful expression, and for one mad moment he wanted to kiss her. He tamped down the thought almost as quickly as it had come. There was nothing good to be had from such urges. He could not act upon them and she could not receive them. It was a pointless thing to entertain.

He cleared his throat, scratched his nose, and gathered his things. A distinct whistle carried through the forest and Tristan knew Galahad had tagged the stag. He did have the stones after all, Tristan thought wryly.

"Ohh… splendid! See I told you, your hunting companion triumphs!" Holly's smile was infectious and Tristan found himself grinning along with her. He turned and motioned for her to follow. He'd come look for his lost arrow later on in the day when there was better light.

He met Galahad at their designated meeting place. The glen was open and cold this morning and the young knight looked extremely pleased by his quarry.

"You'll have to help me track him. I got him in the front flank, the arrow went deep but he still had some fight left. He took off to the east."

Tristan nodded and knew that the tracking would be the exciting part. Carrying such a large animal back to their mounts would not be. They followed the tell-tale trail of blood and deep hoof prints in the snow.

The animal hadn't made it as far as Tristan had anticipated and had eventually collapsed about 100 yards from where Galahad had first shot him.

The arrow shaft was buried deep in the stag's chest, its breathing shallow and its eyes frightened. Galahad's shot should have killed the beast cleanly but for some reason the creature stubbornly refused to die and now it was suffering. He watched as Galahad drew his hunting knife and crept closer to the deer. Holly hovered behind him and he heard her pained gasp. He turned to see her clasp a hand over her chest, her brown eyes shiny and wet. The look made Tristan set his jaw and his heart stutter.

"Do not cry. That stag will feed a large number of villagers and help keep the cook's larder full," he rationalized. Holly merely sniffed at him and shook her head.

"I know _why_," she said, her voice thick. "But he's in pain. Can't you see that?" Holly asked and Tristan watched as she curled her fingers into the fabric of her bodice.

The ethereal black stain appeared again over her heart and the sight of her ghostly wound disturbed Tristan more than he cared to admit.

"I'm _not_ crying. What would make you think that?" Galahad asked defensively, looking at him as if he had just stated that the sky was purple. This brought the scout into the present instantly.

Damn it all, Tristan had addressed Holly in front of Galahad. He had forgotten for a split second that he was the only one who could see her. He would have to mind his tongue.

"Just get on with it," Tristan snapped and the young knight gave him a mystified look. Galahad quickly put the stag out of its misery, and the scout was blinded by the sight of a thin thread of light spiraling away from its body. Tristan stood rooted, watching the creature's essence leave its body and dissipate slowly into the grey morning. He had never witnessed that before, it was startling to say the least.

Would he ever get used to this strange, inconsistent power? Tristan wondered bitterly.

"He is gone," Holly whispered, her voice cracking with the hint of tears. "He didn't even hesitate, lucky animal." Her words immediately brought Tristan out of his reverie.

"Do you envy that animal?" he asked her. Holly remained silent, staring at the fallen stag, her expression blank, and for some reason that troubled him.

"_What?"_ Galahad asked from where he was crouched over the stag. His tone was genuinely perplexed and he was looking at Tristan in a way that made him feel every inch the madman he believed himself to be.

Shaking off Holly's hold on him he turned and glared at Galahad.

"Do you want my help or not?" Tristan shot back as he bent on the opposite side of the stag. Galahad looked at Tristan, then somewhere in the general vicinity of where Holly stood.

Tristan watched as Galahad's eyes narrowed and for a startling moment he wondered if the young man sensed her. Her presence was strong today and he wouldn't have been surprised in the least if Galahad had been bothered by it.

"Ever since I was a boy, I've often thought this forest had eyes," he said quietly as they began to tie the stag's legs together to make it easier for the pair of them to carry. Tristan grunted in reply as they lifted the heavy animal.

"Is it just me, or is the fog thicker today than usual?" Galahad's tone was unmistakably conversational, but Tristan detected a hint of something probing under the surface and knew that the young knight was trying to conceal his growing awareness. Holly kept her distance and for that Tristan was extremely thankful.

Dawn was nearing and she was beginning to fade.

"It's not just you," Tristan said as they struggled to carry the heavy animal back to where they had tied the horses. They managed to get the stag into the cart they had hitched up to Galahad's dappled grey, Dervish. Skye pranced at his approach and Tristan knew that she was well aware of the ghost that followed him.

Tristan stroked her neck in soft even movements and she was instantly calmed again as she breathed warm breath against his palm. Galahad secured the stag before mounting Dervish.

He turned to look at Tristan, his throat working nervously. There was a question burning the end of his tongue and Tristan knew Galahad was hesitant to ask it. The young knight was curious, not stupid, and Tristan respected him for it. He'd known Galahad too long to know the knight was nothing if not sharp.

Galahad turned in the saddle and looked back into the clearing. Tristan followed his line of sight. Holly's outline remained in the trees. Her bright glow now dimmed. She waved at him and nodded once sharply, an almost imperceptible movement that could easily be missed.

"You weren't talking to me back there, were you?" Galahad's question came softly as the young man continued to stare into the glen as Holly slowly disappeared.

"No, I wasn't," Tristan stated simply, believing that it was best not to mince words and state the truth. Mâtar had taught him that much. Turning back to lead Skye out of the forest, Tristan watched as Galahad shook his head as if he had been in a small stupor. He blinked his eyes rapidly and Tristan could feel his gaze boring into the back of his skull.

"That's what I thought," he replied slowly. "Can… Can it follow us?" An edge of fear had crept into his voice and Tristan knew then without a doubt that Holly had shown herself to Galahad. Why though, he did not know.

"No. She is gone now." The sound of Skye's hooves crunching on the snow made his words seem oddly loud and displaced.

"Good." The relief Galahad felt was so keen that Tristan had to suppress a smile. He let the young knight overtake him, and ride ahead at a pace that was probably not entirely safe with the cart attached to Dervish, but Tristan doubted that anything serious would happen on the way back to the fort.

He took the time to admire the landscape along the way and the distinct beauty of the snow-covered hills that surrounded Camelot. He was puzzled by the fact that Holly had appeared to Galahad and he knew he would have to confront her about it later.

The thought of questioning Holly for more information did not ease him, for he knew that Gawain, Lancelot and Arthur were now awaiting the arrival of some very important travelers today.

A feast had been planned in honor of their arrival. Tristan's blood boiled at the thought of having to share a table with a murderer. He had vowed to keep this from Holly as long as it was possible. He did not want her to know that Thaddeus was returning. Tristan had only guessed that it would be a matter of time before Thaddeus' conscious grew lax and he felt safe enough to return to claim the land he had forsaken.

He had witnessed stupid men fall before and this one would be no different. No, indeed, he would see to it himself. Slowly, painfully, he would meet out the retribution that was so deeply deserved and Holly would be none the wiser.

Tristan only hoped that Thaddeus was not foolish enough to bring his daughter with him.

* * *

Enid realized with startling alacrity that rolling landscapes of Brittan were designed to torture travelers. This harsh country was bitter, cold, wet, and unforgiving. She had surmised as much since she had arrived on British soil not two weeks before. Enid wondered for the thousandth time why she had begged her father to take her here.

With every rotation of the carriage's wheels, her stomach roiled and threatened to toss up her meager breakfast. She pressed her head back against the seat and breathed sharply through her nose, willing her stomach to settle, while flinching as she was jostled roughly against Flora when the wagon hit a rather deep hole in the roadway.

Her maid startled awake and blinked rapidly, gazing at her dazedly for a moment. Enid envied the ease at which Flora could doze in a rocking carriage and not be besieged by an almost paralyzing nausea. It was quite unfair.

Enid would have given anything to be able to drift off, but her rioting nerves wouldn't let her. Flora mumbled an apology and Enid gave her a limp flick of her wrist, her concentration on the motion of the carriage and the bile she could feel rising slowly in her throat.

"My lady, you're pale. Are you unwell?" Flora's concern was too little too late. There was nothing for it. She was going to be ill.

"Stop the carriage!" she shouted. Her order came out sounding more like a croaking plea. She grabbed her father's walking cane, which had been resting against the seat and banged on the ceiling twice to get the drivers attention. Her father awoke at the noise. Enid felt a stab of guilt for waking him thus, for he desperately needed his rest. He got too little as it was.

Her father, sitting opposite her in the carriage, brushed the sleep from his bleary eyes. He regarded her with a mild look of concern, a small smile quirking his thin mouth. Enid was chagrined that he should find amusement in the situation but was too preoccupied by not losing her breakfast on her traveling clothes to care.

The carriage, and the luggage wagon following behind, came to a grinding halt. Enid gasped her relief before she opened the carriage door and jumped out as if her skirts were aflame.

She could hear her father calling for her but she paid him no heed. Enid heard footfalls crunching behind her, She waved Flora away as she bent over and retched.

Humiliated that she had not more self-control, she gasped and squeezed her eyes shut. She abhorred riding in carriages in Rome, but these British country roads were a special kind of hell.

The dull grey light of morning and the glaring whiteness of the freshly fallen snow made her realize she was a long way from home. _This was my idea_, she reminded herself.

A bitter wind whipped at her cloak and she pulled it tighter around her body. She wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand and turned around. She gave Flora a shaky smile, "I'm fine. Really. Just give me a moment to collect myself. Join my father back inside; you must be freezing." Her maid nodded and gratefully climbed back into the carriage.

The driver stared at her over his shoulder and she glared right back at him. Had he never witnessed travel sickness before? _Wretched man_, she thought as she slowly walked her way back to the carriage.

Enid could not stand the thought of getting back in that rocking hellbox on wheels. The horses were getting restless and she could hear the jingling of the horse tack; she focused on that for a moment, trying to mentally prepare herself to climb back into the carriage.

"Enid, do not just stand there. Get in here now." Her father's tone was harsh.

She gave him a bright smile, "Father, if it is all right with you, I should like to walk the rest of the way to Hadrian's Fort." She heard him grunt and knew he was, with some difficulty, pushing himself forward on the carriage seat.

"No. We have no man to spare you a companion, unless your sniveling maid should like to accompany you." She thought she might have heard Flora squeak in indignation at the slight.

"Though I doubt she would be a great deal of good use to you if you should happen to come upon some of the savage natives."

The Picts. She looked around her and saw nothing but snow, barren trees, thick firs, and rolling hills for miles. Perhaps she imagined menacing eyes peering at her from the edge of the forest. Perhaps not.

Enid had no need to remind herself of the tales she had heard before she had embarked on this journey. Her father had been most informative of exactly what horrible things could happen to them should they stray off their path.

"Father, I can not ride in this carriage. You know this. Why did you not request a horse for me as I had asked when we left the inn?" The night before, she had made it plain with the tavern owner that she would wish to have a horse to ride and had paid the man handsomely for her request.

Much to her surprise and ire, the following morning her father had canceled those plans without consulting her. She did not get her coin back.

"This is not to be borne, Enid. It is not fit for a lady to arrive on horseback, and it most certainly is not fit to have her arrive on foot. You will get in this carriage now. You are delaying our journey." He thumped his cane on the floor to signify his point.

"I beg of you, Father, please let me walk. I will stay close to the carriage, you have my word."

"And you have mine that I will hear no more of this." He leaned in as close as he could get to her and narrowed his eyes, a look that had always instilled fear into her since she was a child. "Get in."

Enid took a great breath and knew she could not argue with her father any longer. She not only had the attention of the wretched carriage driver, but now both teams of horses were snorting wildly and the driver of the luggage wagon waved her on frantically.

He obviously wanted her to get in as well. Three against one. Not good odds.

Enid reluctantly climbed back in and settled herself as well as she could. She could do this. She could ride in a carriage like a normal person and not get sick.

She repeated this to herself every time they hit a rough spot in the road.

She repeated this to herself when they went up hills and then down.

She repeated this to herself as they finally arrived at Hadrian's Fort and she silently willed the guards to pull open the gates with haste.

"Be still, Enid," her father scolded and she immediately stopped fidgeting with the laces on her cloak. She moved the hide away from the window and saw a small party of men awaiting them at the gate.

The carriage came to a blessed, if jerking, stop and she sent a silent, thankful prayer to God that she had not retched again. Her stomach rumbled and rolled and she forced herself to ignore it.

The carriage door was opened and the driver was there to assist her father disembark. Enid followed, Flora close behind her. As soon as her feet touched solid ground she knew she was going to lose her battle of wills. Her stomach was not going to cooperate no matter how much she wanted it to.

Three men stood to greet them: two had very dark hair and wore garb that placed them in the same social standing, and the other was a hulking blonde who glowered at their small, travel-weary party through thick masses of hair. His gaze shifted to and fro as if he would rather be anywhere but where he was at present.

"Ah, my good lord Thaddeus, welcome! Your journey was well, I presume?" The taller of the dark-haired men exclaimed as he stretched a hand outward in greeting. Her father took the man's hand and shook it before bowed over their clasped hands.

"Your majesty, thank you for your gracious welcome. We have arrived unharmed and that is all we can ask of God." Enid caught the pointed look he gave her and managed to slide her impassive gaze somewhere just over the blond brute's shoulder. "Let me present my daughter, Lady Enid." Her father motioned her forward and she curtsied, automatically bowing her head.

A wave of nausea struck her again and she pressed a palm over her abdomen praying that her stomach would settle. The king turned to her and she pasted on a wobbly smile.

"Welcome to Camelot, my lady. We are most pleased to receive you. I have been very interested to make your acquaintance since I have received your missives so many months ago." There was nothing but sincerity in his voice, and Enid noted that though he was a handsome man, he did not put on airs to impress, and she was most thankful for that.

The king nodded his welcome and turned to the two other men who were with him.

"Let me present two of my Knights. Lancelot, my second-in-command." The other dark-haired man stepped forward. He was an incredibly handsome man with curly hair and he immediately caught her curious gaze. The knight gave them a sharp nod, his dark eyes glinting in the grey morning light, and Enid wondered why he was here to welcome them. His expression was sour and for some reason, Enid suspected he was not as enthusiastic about their arrival as his majesty was. The king then turned to the other man with them and he stepped forward.

"This is Gawain, one of my most trusted knights." Enid curtsied again and instantly regretted the movement. She reacted on instinct and clapped a hand over her mouth. The king turned his perceptive eyes toward her and cocked his head in alarm.

"Are you unwell, my lady?" There was nothing but curious concern in his voice. Her father turned to her swiftly.

"Enid," he hissed under his breath, "do not embarrass me in front of our host."

"I… I…" But she could not get the words out for fear that she would be ill. Thaddeus' eyes went cold instantly.

"My daughter has a delicate constitution and is not used to riding in carriages. She will be fine. Do not fret, Your Highness." Enid only whished her father's words held credence.

She was going to be sick and there was nothing she could do to stop it. Oh heaven help her. The blond knight looked at her curiously and stepped forward. His expression was no longer bored, no, indeed he almost looked amused.

"Forgive me, my lord, but she looks as if she is about to lose her breakfast here and now. I would like to escort her to he healer, if I may, so she does not further cause you distress." Enid turned her startled gaze toward the knight Gawain. Was the man serious?

"I agree, Gawain. Take her to see Dagonet-she looks very unwell," Arthur replied, a friendly, cautious smile on his face.

She didn't have time to object. The large blond knight named Gawain grabbed for her upper arm. Enid swerved to his right, covering her mouth. _No, it was not this time for this! Control yourself!_ She dimly heard her father protest at the improper manhandling of his daughter, but Enid didn't care.

It was either suffer this minor dishonor or be sick in front of the king. She would rather be dragged about like some fool than lose her breakfast again. _Damn carriages, they should all be burned!_ She thought, and some part of her rational mind knew she was being absolutely ridiculous.

She blindly let Gawain lead her away from the gates, though she had a difficult time keeping up with his long-legged stride. Using short quick steps just to keep up, she was practically running through the hustle and bustle of the village. They narrowly avoided wagons and livestock and women with baskets balanced on their heads and babes latched to their hips.

The speed at which they walked and the quick motions of avoiding injury as they went made her stomach roil violently. Finally, just when she thought she was going to completely humiliate herself again, Gawain turned a sharp corner and looked at her.

"I apologize, my lady," he said, his voice low as his extremely blue eyes gleamed, and Enid thought she spied humor in them. Was the man laughing at her? He shoved a thick wooden door open and assisted her inside. A small woman with short dark hair jumped up from her post by the twin hearths when they entered.

"Reagan, come quickly, Lady Enid is not well," Gawain said with haste. The woman hurried over to them and helped Enid sit on a narrow bed. Enid tried to wave them away, fresh tears of shame starting to cloud her vision. She couldn't speak for fear she'd be ill again. She only wished to be left alone and idly wondered where Flora had gone when she needed her now more than ever. She had probably gotten turned around while following them here.

The thought of her maid alone and unchaperoned in this place made panic flutter within her breast, which was then automatically over ruled by another wave of nausea.

"Stop hovering, my lord, I'm sure that the lady is just exhausted from her journey." Enid watched through watery eyes as Reagan gave her a sympathetic smile and pushed Sir Gawain away from her bedside. The large knight stood there looking confused for a moment, then he mumbled something that Enid thought didn't sound very kind.

Reagan paid him no mind and turned with such speed that Enid was forced to blink. Before she had a chance to utter a single word, an earthenware bowl was placed in her lap and clean drying linens were placed on the small worn table at her bedside.

"Please, Gawain, _leave_," Reagan said and gave the knight a meaningful look. Sir Gawain nodded sharply as comprehension dawned across his face, gave Enid a great bow, and mumbled that he would return to check on her and fetch her to her rooms if she so desired, then turned on his heel and lumbered away.

The relief she felt at his departure was staggering. Reagan, she noticed, tiptoed away and turned the corner into a smaller room attached. Enid was left in blessed solitude.

Enid made use of the bowl much to her dismay. Her stomach had already been emptied once and the nausea now hit her in rolling waves. She moaned quietly, used one if the drying linens to wipe at her mouth, and then set the bowl on the floor. She sank weakly onto the cot, shame and relief filling her with conflicting emotions. Her father would be furious with her.

There was no doubt of that, though he had no one to blame but himself for her condition. That was unfair, Enid thought, she had climbed back into the carriage of her own free will and it wasn't father's fault that she had a weak stomach.

She lay there, staring up at the high ceiling with its rough wooden rafters and planked roof, listening to the fire crackle in the twin hearths at the end of the room. This was a cozy place, she thought, even if it was an apparent infirmary. She closed her eyes and once again thought of her house.

The entire reason she was here in the first place. The fantasy of land belonging solely to her was a dream come true and she knew in her heart that she would ride in a hundred carriages again just to be near it. It was _hers_, and no one could take it from her. Enid's thoughts drifted as calm finally settled in her belly.

There was the rumble of quiet voices in the other room. She could only pick up bits and pieces of the conversation, but Reagan was not alone in the infirmary, as she had first thought.

Enid sat up and turned toward the door. Almost at once an enormous man came into the main room.

The sound of his quiet footsteps was uncanny. The first thing she noticed about him was that his hair was shaved close to his scalp and his skin gleamed in the firelight. His clothes were well kept and clean, and he walked with a grace that belied his size. It was his countenance that was most striking. It was both fierce and kind in the same turn and he wore an expression of open acceptance that told her she need not fear him.

Enid could only stare up at him when he turned toward her. For a second she realized she was holding her breath, and exhaled loudly.

If she thought Sir Gawain hulking, then this man was an absolute giant. An extraordinarily handsome giant, she conceded, and one with very sad eyes.

He took in the bowl she had placed on the floor. In an attempt to be modest she had covered it with one of the cloths, though she was positive he had heard her retching. Enid's face colored at the thought.

"Are you still unwell, my lady?" His voice was deep and quiet and filled with concern. Enid could only blink up at him in surprise.

"Who...Who are you?" Her voice was breathy and she was suddenly ashamed at the rudeness of the question. A lady was never blunt.

He merely gave her a faint smile, then bowed. "Forgive me, I am so used to tending to the locals that I forgot you just arrived today. I am Sir Dagonet, one of the king's knights and a healer. I was told that you were suffering from traveling sickness. Is this true?" Enid nodded as she watched him come closer to her.

Once again she felt herself holding her breath as Dagonet bent toward her. He met her gaze squarely and she noticed that his eyes were dark with flecks of gold in them. Beautiful eyes, she thought and then caught herself.

What in god's name was she thinking?

He placed one of his hands; large and calloused on the side of her face. He expertly turned her head to the right in the simplest of movements. Enid was too stunned to protest. His skin was amazingly warm and his touch gentle.

"Your eyes are strained. This is not the first time you were ill this morning." It was more a statement then a question and Enid shook her head, afraid to speak. He was too close to her and she feared her breath was horrible.

"I have the tonic you requested, my lord." Dagonet turned away from her and Enid watched as he reached for the mug Reagan held out toward him. She peeked around Dagonet's shoulder and offered Enid a bright smile, which instantly transformed her features from plain to stunning. Reagan, Enid admitted, was a pretty thing and Enid wondered what a she was doing working in an infirmary.

"That tonic will make you feel right as rain, you'll see, my lady. Dagonet had me make it especially." Dagonet smiled as he passed over the drink. Enid placed her hands around the warm mug and gave them both a grateful smile. She took one sip as the fresh-tasting liquid coursed down her scratchy throat, and the infirmary doors opened again. Sir Gawain had returned, this time with a harassed-looking Flora trailing behind him.

Her maid glared daggers at the blond man before her expression changed to one of great concern as she hurried over to Enid's side.

"I fetched your maid, Lady Enid," Gawain announced loudly as Flora skirted around him quickly, annoyance creasing the skin of her brow.

"Oh, my lady, forgive me. I… I lost sight of you and that _man_ was walking too fast for me to properly keep up! Are you still unwell?" Flora tossed one more look of loathing over her shoulder at Gawain to which he raised a tawny eyebrow and Enid immediately wondered what had transpired between them to cause such a reaction in her usually docile maid. Enid gave her a small smile and stood.

"No, Flora. I am quite well. I was just given a tonic that I do believe has done wonders." She passed the mug back to the healer and was startled when their fingertips brushed. Their eyes met yet again and he gave her a nod; she offered him a genuine smile and curtsied as was proper.

"Thank you, Sir Dagonet, for your help, I am feeling much better. I am sure my father is inquiring after me." She gave a nod to Reagan as well and the girl curtsied in reply.

"Your father has already been settled into his quarters," Gawain stated rather quickly, and Flora shot her a rueful look. Naturally, her father would see to his comforts first and send Sir Gawain, a man he had just met, in his stead. _Naturally._

"I'm sure we shall see you tonight, Lady Enid," Reagan said her eyes sparkling; her manner was earnest and genuine. "For there has been a feast planned in honor of your arrival. The king was quite insistent upon it, much to my husband's regret. I am of the opposite opinion and I have myself been looking forward to it very much."

"Your husband?" Enid asked her gaze darting between the petite Reagan and the rather large and very attractive Sir Dagonet. Reagan caught her look and smiled innocently.

"Yes. I believe you met my husband already. I do hope that Lancelot was welcoming, he was in a rather foul mood this morning." Enid didn't reply, as she thought back to the sour-faced knight she'd met only moments ago, she only smiled kindly and wondered if she would be able to attend tonight's feast given her rumbling stomach.

"I shall be glad to see you tonight Lady Reagan. I had not planned on being introduced to you in such a way, but perhaps being ill when I arrived has had its benefits." Reagan laughed and Enid knew that she would be an easy woman to get to know.

"No indeed. However, now not only have you met Sir Gawain, but Dagonet as well. You are a very fortunate woman. It usually takes a while to get these two to even speak to a lady." Enid smiled and appreciated the easy way at which Lady Reagan added humor and a twist of practicality to an otherwise humiliating moment, and then she had a sudden thought.

She need not worry about her stomach tonight: if the big knight was going to be in attendance she knew she would be too distracted to eat anything anyway. As if sensing her thoughts the healer turned away from her gaze, his ears turning pink.

Enid let Reagan escort both her and Flora to the door, Gawain trailing behind them with specific instructions from Arthur to take the lady and her maid to the rooms awaiting them. Gawain, with mirth dancing in his eyes, took this chance to torment Flora a little longer. Enid suspected that Flora was very disturbed by the attention. Her maid's demeanor was nothing short of ruffled and it made Enid smile to see the normally benign woman flustered.

Enid turned to say her goodbyes and found herself flustered yet again as Dagonet's gaze met her own squarely. Enid felt her own face turn pink and she almost embarrassed herself yet again by walking directly into the still-closed door. Mortified now beyond measure, Enid only wished for the floor to open up and swallow her whole. Couldn't any other morning go so horribly wrong?

She blindly followed Gawain and Flora, listening to the knight grumble at the slow pace of her maid's stride and Flora's answering sniff of distain at the knight's rudeness. She smiled and wondered if she could talk Flora into attending the feast with her; the antics between the blond knight and her maid would make for a spectacular distraction. A distraction Enid knew that was desperately needed.

God help her if her father knew how she had behaved in the healing rooms. It was something that she would never live down.

Thankfully her father would never know. Enid pushed all thoughts of the tall knight with sad eyes from her mind and instead focused on her reason for being here in the first place. There was a villa awaiting her and the opportunity for a new life that she had so desperately wanted. She looked up at the grey sky with its slowly falling snow and smiled.

This was home now.

This was where she belonged and she knew she had finally arrived.

**AN: I can't wait to have more fun with Enid and Dagonet! I suspect that they are probably cringing at what I have in store for them.**

**Chapter 10: Holly has a very scary, but interesting run-in with Mab (really Merlin's Phox I don't think you want to be a crazy crone when you get older- Mab is one pretty scary lady) and Tristan does not make a very good impression on Arthur's guests. Glaring at them stonily does not put them at ease. Trust me.**

**Until then, I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint. Again thank you to everyone who reviewed/read/alerted! You all make my day when I see my inbox filling up! **

**Happy Reading!**

**~S**


	10. Chapter 10

**I own nothing in this story that seems familiar. You already know that. Enid, Holly and I wish it were otherwise.**

**Thank you to the beta team! This one was a collaborative effort! The three of you are truly remarkable.**

**To everyone who took the time out to review chapter 9, thank you. I mean that from the bottom of my heart. You know who you are.**

**If this chapter raises more questions than it answers, the next chapter will probably make you want to rip your hair out.**

_"If you can look into the seeds of time, and say which grain will grow and which will not, speak then unto me."_- **William Shakespeare**

Chapter 10

Holly heard the faint notes of festive music and was immediately drawn to it. It had been several weeks since there had been a celebration at Camelot and the new king, it seemed, was a generous sort. She peered through the dense forest, reaching its edge without even realizing the speed at which she moved. That constant invisible barrier forbade her to go any further and Holly leaned against a tree, sighing quietly.

The night seemed to be draped in a cape of white, the torches gleamed on the freshly fallen snow, making it sparkle. Great tufts of smoke billowed into the sky and she imagined the heavenly sent of meat roasting. In her mind's eye Holly saw the colors of the women's skirts swirling as they danced, saw their partners smiling gaily at them as they twirled about.

She heard the sounds of mingled laughter and conversation, tasted the tangy sweetness of mead on her tongue. The urge to join them, to be one of them even for one night caused a sharp pain of sorrow in her chest. Holly swallowed hard and forced herself to turn away from the glittering sight.

There was nothing to be gained from such a powerful longing. How many times over the years had she wished of such things? Death was cold and lonely, but it had its advantages, and she had schooled herself in this half existence knowing that life was something that envy could never return to her to, no matter how strong she felt it.

A deep and cold shudder ran through her that Holly knew had nothing to do with her melancholic thoughts. She gasped at the force of it and turned to the east. Someone was near her oak tree. With an instinctive urgency she had not felt in a long time, Holly knew that something was wrong. She moved quickly and soundlessly through the forest toward the source of the disturbance she was feeling so strongly.

Her ties to the tree were elemental; thus far only one other person had guessed the importance of the tree and confronted her with it. He had never mentioned it again, although she suspected Tristan knew the tree had a special power over her.

Holly stopped short once she realized who the intruder was. Mab sensed her almost immediately and she ceased mid-scrape, the witch's wiry hand curled tightly around the hilt of a dagger. A dagger she was using to remove large chunks of bark from the oak tree. Words of warning jammed in Holly's throat as the crone lifted her head slowly and sniffed the air in a peculiar way.

Her thin mouth twisted, exposing a few rotting stumps of teeth. A dry menacing chuckle carried on the wind toward her, making Holly's skin prickle in awareness. Mab, Holly knew, could always sense her. She had no doubt that the woman could see her. There was, however, a reason that the ghost did not approach the witch.

The plain truth of it was that she was afraid of her. Holly had always been afraid of Mab.

The old woman turned in a quick, uncanny move for one so ancient. She tucked the torn pieces of bark she had collected into the folds of her cloak before she turned her focus on Holly.

The way her eye unnaturally swiveled in her socket made Mab appear much more menacing and unholy than she usually did.

Despite her ragged, worn appearance, the old woman was wily and strong and Holly had always known that Mab was not to be underestimated.

There was a strange and piercing presence that surrounded her and in spite her misgivings, Holly had felt drawn toward her.

She had, however, wisely kept her distance from the strange woman, knowing in her heart that there was an absence of compassion as well as an unexplained darkness surrounding the old woman, no matter her fragile appearance.

Tonight it was no different. If anything, Holly was more frightened now of Mab than she had ever been.

The crone stared at Holly and the ghost felt pinned under the piercing light blue gaze, unable to move or even to speak. A thick blackness closed in around her, squeezing her chest and making her ache. It was as if a phantom hand had reached out to hold her in place.

"What…what do you want with the tree?" Holly forced the words out, as each one pained her. Mab chuckled again and patted her now full pockets.

"The time is nigh for harvesting," the old woman replied, as she patted the now-naked part of the trunk. Holly blinked in confusion. Then she watched as Mab bent at the waist and began to brush snow from the base of the tree with her hands, pulling out a small shovel and stabbing the earth, twisting the blade of the shovel deep. Holly felt it as if she herself had been stabbed and she cried out in pain, unable to smother the sound as she fell to her knees in agony.

"Please. Stop. Leave it." Her plea was weak and Holly knew that the crone had no intention of doing anything she asked. Holly was beginning to feel weaker by the second, and the evening had only just begun. She had stored her energy in droves throughout the day in hopes that her knight might visit her.

She did not expect to have this other all-together frightening and painful encounter.

How had the old woman known about her ties to this tree? How could she know? She'd told no one. Tristan had known, but he'd not told a soul, had he?

Mab lifted the pouch she had filled with damp earth, a smile curving her thin lips. Dark soil covered her hands as she cryptically announced, "You'll pay handsomely for it."

"I want nothing from you, _witch_," Holly sneered, her temper beginning to flare. Using the last vestiges of her energy she attempted a counter attack. She watched in satisfaction when Mab was forced to brace herself against the tree for support when a wild wind threatened to knock her over.

"Leave, old woman. Go before I make you _go_." A violent and powerful gale swirled around them, kicking up great drifts of snow and coating the witch's thin clothing in white. Mab only laughed in a maniac way that made Holly want to scream. The crone approached her slowly, but Holly refused to be cowed by the menace she felt wafting toward her with each and every step.

"When he fails you, you'll come to me." The statement was made with confidence, so sure was Mab that Holly would do that very thing.

"Never," Holly ground out. Mab smiled eerily, making the skin of Holly's neck crawl in reaction.

"I am many things and he is nothing. The sooner you realize that, the sooner you will have what you so desperately desire. I wonder though, who will you chose when the time comes? The man or the girl?" Holly blinked in confused terror as Mab was in suddenly front of her, close enough to touch.

The crone's filthy hand was outstretched as if to grab her. Holly opened her mouth to scream but before she could, the witch was inexplicably gone.

Mab had completely disappeared in the time it took for Holly to register her shock.

More frightened now than ever, Holly gathered her scattered wits and slowly approached the tree. She noticed with despair that the base of it had been scraped to the point that the naked trunk had began to weep sap. The soil was disturbed and she blew on it to repair it as much as she could.

The tree was old. It was sacred. It was everything to her in this forest.

Shaken and more scared than she cared to admit, Holly dimly returned to her glen. She perched on the lump that was the poacher's hut and stared out into the darkness. She was left to wonder what had just occurred, as Mab had never approached her before. The fact that she had done so now made her furrow her brow with worry.

_The time is nigh for harvesting_.

The old woman's words echoed eerily in her memory and Holly was barely able to suppress a shiver of foreboding. What did Mab want? What could the witch possibly gain by approaching her now and desecrating her oak tree? Holly's replayed the encounter over and over again in her mind, searching for hints at Mab's designs and could find none.

Did she seek to wreak havoc with a benign spirit? What would be the point? The woman was insane, yes, but she was also very clearly dangerous.

Realizing just how alone she was, the cold empty glen was not as welcoming to her as it had been in the past. Wishing with all her heart that her taciturn scout would make good on his promise to return to her soon, she listened to the cheery melody coming from the kingdom that sat so close.

Holly keenly felt the life that was just out of reach and once again realized the bitter loneliness that was her existence.

* * *

Enid wondered bitterly if someone was playing her for a fool.

The great hall in Camelot was teeming with revelry, and even in this rambunctious atmosphere she couldn't have felt more anxious. It did not help that the most beautiful woman she had ever laid eyes on was sitting to her left and it most certainly did not help that the queen, another very beautiful woman in her own right, had placed the handsome and soft-spoken Sir Dagonet to her right. Despite her best efforts she felt hopelessly out of her element and she prayed it didn't show.

Enid attempted polite conversation and received stilted careful replies from Dagonet in return. In addition she was gaily offered a new "delicious" or "divine" morsel of food every time she mentioned the abundance of feast offerings to Lady Ivy. Enid stared down at her barely touched plate and felt guilty for letting such delicious food go to waste.

It wasn't the shy stilted conversations with Sir Dagonet that Enid found put her most ill at ease, no indeed, those tummy rumbling feelings came from a different source all together. Sir Tristan had only just made their acquaintance and if looks could kill Enid was convinced that she would be stone dead twice over by now.

The strange man did not speak to her, not even when she asked if his hunt had gone well this morning. Her attempt at conversation when she spoke of the weather with a shy smile of encouragement was met with a resolute and stony silence. Instead, he only stared at her as if she were something very unpleasant stuck to his boot heel. His piercing gaze roved her features in an overly familiar way, as if he were looking for something she did not possess, and it unsettled her.

His rude behavior was something Enid could overlook. She had only just met the man and so she was willing to give him the benefit of doubt- perhaps he simply had a mistrustful nature. But there was something puzzling about his odd behavior that she could not rationalize. If Sir Tristan found her manners lacking that was one thing, but the way he treated her father was another.

Thaddeus was a man of great wealth and respectability. She was used to the pomp and almost fawning reception her father received when he made his appearances in the Roman court, so she was astounded at the cold way the knight had treated him when they had been introduced.

He had ignored her father's outstretched hand, had not attempted to speak to him when asked of his station, and instead had glowered silently at her father as if he were the devil incarnate. It was flustering to say the least.

Tearing her gaze away from the uncouth man across the hall, Enid focused again on her plate. The food she had managed to choke down sat like stones in her belly and she wondered if she could excuse herself from her table company without seeming rude.

"Lady Enid, you must try some of this pork, it is divine," Ivy said before she plunked a rather large piece of meat onto her place. Enid stared at it in defeat before she turned to her feast companion with a weak smile of thanks. Ivy chewed with relish and pointed to the dishes before them, silently willing her to eat more.

Enid could not miss the small bump beneath the woman's skirts, or the way she glowed more brightly than the torches that lit the hall; the lady was obviously with child. A fine net of amber colored jewels adorned Lady Ivy's brilliant red hair and the dress she wore was of the finest spun green wool. Her handsome and youthful husband was doting and very obviously smitten with his wife. Sir Galahad had not once left the woman's side all evening, but now he smiled at Enid, his eyes sparkling with mirth at his wife's attempt to get her to eat something.

It was at that moment that Lady Reagan approached her, lifting her goblet in salute, a bright smile on her face.

Her short hair was in disarray, as she had been one of the first to start the dancing for the evening, and her husband was only too glad to join her. Enid watched them with envy, noting that Reagan and Lancelot made a dashing pair with their dark heads bent close to each other and secret smiles shared between the two. Adoration was evident in the knight's dark eyes as he gazed upon his wife, and Enid felt a stab of longing at the look.

Sir Dagonet shifted uncomfortably next to her. She suspected it was difficult for him to fold his large frame into such a small chair.

Her gaze strayed to his once more and Enid could not help but return the small smile he gifted her with

"Lady Enid, will you not join us in the next dance?" Reagan's voice was a little too chipper for Enid's ears and she suspected that there was an underlying hint to the request. Enid looked back at the small woman and smiled her thanks as she shook her head slightly.

"At any other occasion I would be delighted, my lady, yet I fear I do not know many of the dances I have witnessed tonight." It was an honest response and she silently willed the young woman to not press it further. Enid had no desire to make an ass of herself tonight, as she had already done that well enough this morning.

"Ah, but you would have such a splendid partner. Sir Dagonet is deceptively light on his feet and I am sure he would teach you the proper steps in no time." Reagan had the audacity to wink at her and Enid felt her face color in response. Once again, Dagonet shifted in his chair, though it was obvious that this time it was due to reasons other than his size.

"Please, my lady, I do not wish to tax the good knight. He may be light on his feet as you claim, but I cannot say the same for myself," Enid responded with a wry grin hoping the self-derision would put a full stop to Reagan's scheming. Her attempt failed miserably and it seemed that Lady Ivy was now in on it as well.

"Dagonet would be honored to dance with you, wouldn't you Dag?" Ivy's smile was enough to melt butter and Enid felt that she was sinking into a well-placed trap. She dared a look at the knight, who wore an expression that could only be described as resigned amusement, and she realized that she had no choice. He didn't either.

Dagonet scooted his chair back and gave her a deep bow before holding out his hand in invitation.

"My lady?"

She swallowed hard, glanced at the great hall teeming with couples dancing, and barely registered Reagan's satisfied grin before she slipped her hand into the rough warmth of Dagonet's. For a single moment there was nothing but sensation. There was no hall, no music, no dancers, and certainly no scheming gentle ladies.

All that existed in Enid's world was the peculiar and bracing feeling of her skin touching his. His grasp was firm and confident and he squeezed her fingers once gently, reassuringly. She barely suppressed the urge to gasp at the contact.

She let him lead her into the dance and Enid became aware of the differences in their height almost immediately.

"Do not trouble yourself, my lady. I will not let you stumble," he said, the kind words a quiet rumble, and Enid managed a shaky, grateful smile. It was a three-step combination and requiring a partner change every fourth turn. Enid caught on quickly, only once did she make a mistake, which caused her to lose her timing.

Dagonet, she had to concede, was a very good dance partner. He tried to lighten her mood by attempting conversation, but Enid was too busy counting her steps to make very many replies. There were, however, numerous smiles exchanged between them, enough so that Enid soon forgot about counting entirely and let the movements of the dance carry her away. She was, she reluctantly admitted, having fun.

They changed partners and Enid found herself twirling about the First Knight, who graciously managed to help her when she made a slight misstep. Lancelot gave her a slight bow, his thick black curls bouncing as he helped her into the correct position and they began anew. Enid flicked her pale braid over her shoulder, took a deep breath and counted one…two…three, as the dance started over again.

When it was done she was sweating, completely parched, and grinning like a green girl at her first sortie. Lancelot bowed and Enid curtsied and was completely surprised when Dagonet led her away from the other dancers and escorted her to get a refreshing drink.

She murmured her thanks when a cold goblet of wine was pressed into her hands. Enid took the opportunity to study her companion surreptitiously over the rim.

There was a light, thin scar that bisected his left eye; she could only imagine its inception. Dagonet, Enid realized, had seen and done things she herself couldn't even begin to contemplate. What must his life be like on a daily basis? What did he do before there was relative peace in the kingdom? He caught her curious gaze and Enid was embarrassed at being caught staring.

He gave her a small smile and inclined his head as if to reassure her that her gaze did not disturb him as much as she thought.

His attention was drawn over her shoulder for a moment and confusion creased his wide tan brow. Enid turned in the same direction and noticed the scout was watching her, closely. Something about the look made her extremely uneasy. She looked back at Dagonet, gave him a simple shrug, and took another drink of her wine. She hoped that her expression did not give her own confusion away.

"You seem to have caught the attention of our scout, my lady." Dagonet tried to make the observation sound casual but Enid heard the undercurrent of curiosity in it.

"Yes, indeed, he was not very welcoming when we were introduced earlier by your queen." She took another swallow of wine, hoping to hide the rancor in her voice.

"Do not take offence. He is not the type to make conversation with anyone. Though I cannot explain why he would be so rude to someone he has just met. He is a difficult man to know, and I can only claim the honor as I have lived with him these past twenty years." Enid was glad to hear that she was not singled out in any particular way by the unsociable knight, though his curtness and dark glares still made her uncomfortable.

"Do you make excuses for his behavior?"

"No. I only wish to put you at ease." Enid smiled at this and wondered if Dagonet was really as generous and the kindhearted soul he appeared to be. They were approached moments later by the King, and Enid praised him on the feast and how wonderful a dancer his healer-knight was. Bright flags of color appeared on Dagonet's cheeks at the praise, which seemed to amuse Arthur to no end.

"You will be wishing to visit your father's property soon, I should think, my lady." It was more of a statement than a question and Enid liked that the king was so frank about her reasons for visiting his court.

"Yes, your majesty. I should like to visit it as soon as possible. I understand that it has sat vacant for sometime, and I would like to make assessments of the repairs needed. For my father's sake, of course," she added hastily. Arthur gave her a benign smile and inclined his head.

"As you wish. I have instructed my scout Tristan that he should take you there on the morrow, if that should suit you. He knows the land well and would not lead you astray." The thought of going into the forest with the rude man was disconcerting to say the least, and Enid knew her displeasure showed on her face as the king quickly added, "I would of course, send another knight with you and your maid as escort. Your father has stated that he is still recovering from the journey, but that he is comfortable letting you travel without him." Arthur gave Dagonet a pointed look and Enid had a feeling that there was an unspoken command hanging in the air between the two men. Sir Dagonet nodded and gave her a reassuring smile.

"I should be happy to accompany you tomorrow if you would wish it, my lady," Dagonet said, adding quickly, "Ivy and Reagan can run the healing rooms in my stead while I am away." Enid, grateful for the offer of company, ignored the chagrined look on the king's face at the knight's response.

"That would be most kind. I do not know these lands yet, and the more men I have to help guide me through them the better. Thank you," she added quietly. Enid was glad that she would not have to suffer only Sir Tristan on her ride to the villa. Dagonet seemed inclined to step in for her when she herself didn't even know she needed him. It was sweet, actually, and it made her like him even more.

They parted company after exchanging a few more niceties with the king, Dagonet mentioning he had patients to check on in the infirmary while Enid was beckoned back to her table. Lady Ivy had apparently found her something "divinely sweet" to eat and she insisted she try some. Enid joined her happily.

The food suddenly held greater appeal than it had before and she ate with renewed zeal.

When the evening wound to a close, Enid began to make her way out of the Great Hall. She debated on which direction she should go and wracked her memory for the location of her chambers. She turned left and let out a surprised gasp when she came face to chest with a man.

Her eyes slowly traveled upward to find the silent scout glaring down at her. It was as if he had sprung from the shadows, his appearance was so startling.

"I am to escort you to your chambers. King's orders," he added at her surprised look. Enid had no time to properly respond as he began a swift pace in the opposite direction. She struggled to catch up with his long-legged strides. They rounded a corner and the knight came to an abrupt stop, Enid barely caught herself before she careened directly into him.

Tristan turned to address her and she took an immediate step back, intimidated not only by his height but the rather large and lethal looking sword strapped to his hip.

"Be ready in the morning. Directly after you have broken your fast, I expect to meet you in the stables. If you make me wait, I shall leave without you." Enid's eyes grew wide at the briskness of his tone. She was too shocked to care that he had not addressed her properly.

The torchlight did strange things to his gruff and angular countenance. The savage black marks under his eyes blended into the darkness of the shadows in a bizarre way.

Who was this strange man?

"I have no intentions of making you wait. I shall endeavor to make sure I do not cause you any distress on our ride to the villa." Her tone matched the vehemence in his and his oddly colored gaze roved over her features in that familiar way once more.

Enid felt the urge to flinch and turn away from him, but fought her instincts as she refused to be cowed by this insolent man.

The silence between them was rife with tension and when she could stand it no longer she asked, "What have I done to offend you so?" She stood waiting for an explanation, but Tristan remained studiously and damningly silent. Feeling her ire rise, Enid did not bother to wait a moment longer in his presence.

Gathering her skirts in a tight fist she moved around him, sharp snaps of fabric against stone breaking the silence that had stretched between them.

"You are more like her than you know."

His strange and lilting voice drifted over the rapid clicking of her footsteps on the icy stone. Enid stopped dead in her tracks at the softly spoken words. She turned swiftly on her heel, ready to demand that he explain himself further, but to her complete surprise she was alone in the cold, sparse corridor.

The torches cast dancing shadows on the walls, and it was as if Tristan had melted back into the gloom from which he had arrived. Enid squinted, forcing her eyes to focus on the darkness, silently daring the man to show himself again. He did not.

Extremely puzzled by the encounter-nay the entire evening-Enid managed to find her way back to her chambers unescorted.

She listened to Flora's idle chatter while her maid helped her ready for bed. She wondered what tomorrow morning would bring and prayed she would be able to hold her temper around the frustratingly silent and infinitely mysterious scout.

_You are more like her than you know. _Tristan's words echoed in her memory as she lay in total darkness willing her mind to sleep, and she realized that his haunted gaze and softly spoken words disturbed her more than she would ever care to admit.

**AN: This was a tricky chapter to write. There were numerous drafts of it before I was satisfied. Mab while evil is cunning and she speaks in riddles (at least in my mind when I'm writing her). She has her own separate agenda. ****As for the next chapter, it was emotionally trying. That's all I have to say about that. The story will get darker as we go along and beliefs will be tested. Just a fair warning the story will earn its 'M' rating ;)**

**Thank you to all of my readers and reviewers! Your encouragement is what keeps me going. Thank you. **

**Until chapter 11**

**~S**


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